my mechanical heart

And writing. I want to write again. I have three different styles.

1)Argumentative prose
2)Expository prose
3)Creative nonfiction

I mean, writing in this thing will just be journal style, but I am hoping I will be able to fit all three of those in here. Especially number three. My favorite.

Here is something I wrote on FB a few days ago:
There are certain things I really miss. People, rather.

This insomnia is getting the best of me. I know it's my own mental barrier yet I still am unable to knock it down. You can't break the hand that feeds you. Break it.

It's 5:34 am when my mother comes into the brightly lit bathroom.

"I don't know how you are going to wake up for your dentist appointment." As she says this I am brushing my teeth.

"I don't know how either, but I do it all the time." I start pulling floss through my tender gums, and red starts to appear between my teeth. I'm concerned about the health of my gums, thus my making a dentist appointment for myself. My parents always stressed the benefits of a healthy mouth.

When did sleeping become so hard? When did writing become so hard?

Inane thoughts parade through my brain as I sit in bed, staring at the cat and attempting sleep. So much for the fireworks.

I remember the time I tried so hard and I just couldn't do it. I tried and tried and it was like trying to climb a flat cement wall with nothing to grab onto, I was clawing trying to make grooves in the cement but instead I wore down my nails that I had just a day earlier painted such a pretty pretty pink. Rosebud pink it was called, but it looked more like slightly worn ballerina slippers. Maybe if I had put those slippers on and danced I woulda got somewhere but for what it was worth I was treading water.

"You lack clarity and detail," a professor once told me in so many words, none of which were "you" and "lack" and "clarity" and "and" and "detail." But I figured if I threw in words like "azure" and "softly glistening" and "draped like the folds of a motheaten curtain in an abandoned house" I'd get some extra credit or something. Or be a real poetic author. But I've never been a poet. I have a knack for being the kind of realist you never learned about in English class and never will because no one gives a shit about the pointless conversations of day to day life. But that's realism, baby. No one wants a piece unless that turd is polished, even if in some gruesome nitty gritty way, like "his grizzled mouth spat a brown wad of tobacco onto the fading ochre linoleum of her kitchen floor." Shit, even that's boring.

I guess I'm not cut out for fiction or poetry. I should argue and tell you when it's okay to like something and not okay for other somethings. Or tell you little blips about my life that never add up to the sum of my parts, parts bad and good and ugly and beautiful and honest and deceitful andandandandand. And.

I could tack on a million ands and a million ballerina slippers but it's never gonna change anything but my feet attire.

I'm lookin at photos of you like they are some last known photos and maybe they are. I start to think to myself and it's like this: "so here we go."