It's this house.

There is something about this house that is choking the shit out of me. I've been trying to stay away from it as much as possible but it seems like when I'm trapped inside these walls something is creeping up inside my and trying to kill me, and I wish I was exaggerating, even with an open window I still can't catch the steadiness of breath.When I'm not in this house and I'm writing ideas shoot from my finger tips like that's what I should be doing because that's what I should be doing. I've written things that for the first time I'm not afraid to share because they won't meet some gold start writing standard that no one set for me, and what I wrote is great. It's full of me and peppered with all the people and experiences I've had in this life so far.

Even on simple walks the world just becomes a much clearer place, like today, while I was walking home from work in the rain, I realized how stubborn I am, how easily I will quit anything that doesn't instantly satisfy me, how much that has held me back. I have quit literally everything I've ever started...basketball,baseball,skating, dance, Spanish club,band, chorus, the list can go on for days. I haven't quit writing though. The results aren't what I expect them to be but its the only thing that I don't really hold accountable, writing's just it for me, and whatever it is, it has stopped happening in this house.

Maybe we've out grown each other, me and the house. Maybe all that was meant to be loved and lived here has happened and its time for me to move on. And this is not me being crazy, this is me removing myself from the situation and truly realizing the truth. It's even caused me to almost hate my mother, and I do love and appreciate all that she's done for me but when we are in this house together I could throw her down a flight of steps and then walk past her and not even offer her an ounce of sympathy. It's just that bad, and there have been times when we have had it out and never have I felt as much resentment for her as I do now, but I know that it's not her...its this fucking house.

Right now, I wish I had a sledge hammer to push through windows and doors because I want to write this and the words aren't coming the way that I want them to and I feel the walls and the floors mocking me. Mocking me to the point where I would set this house ablaze and smile.

I need to get away. Away from this house, away from Delaware, away from any and everything that feels natural or normal or right. But where? And with what? I have nothing but a laptop, a disconnected blackberry, a wardrobe that is a whole year late, and most importantly no money. If I think about how much money I've made in my short life and how much I would have if I just saved $25 from every pay check. I'd have a half way decent saving so I could just get up tomorrow morning and move.

It's that time now were future planning is more important than ever. Shit, I'll be 25 in 2 years. 2 fucking years. I don't want to get there and still be planning. Even if I don't want to plan I want to be in a position where I can just move where the wind and the opportunity takes me.

But it's becoming too difficult to write even when I'm get getting stuff off my chest. This house is not my friend, and no I am not crazy. I feel this and wouldn't tell you if I didn't believe it to be the 100% God's honest truth.


Craving out a piece of history,

KD