Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

via: WeHeartIt

Undesired, I feel that I am left free falling. Falling. Falling. Crashing. Tumbling. Thrashing against the rocks, tossed by the waves. Gnarled upon the stones. The salt washes away my sin.

I started thinking more like Donovan – the character, not the friend. Meanwhile, I write the skeletons for “Squares” even though I’m unsure where that project is going or whether JD is still up for it. I stopped texting him and he hasn’t been around much online. Apparently, he’s gone soul searching. I’d rather hear it from the horses mouth – I’ve been stung by the scorpion one too many times.

I’m on Kathryn’s storyline, still. I’m working my way around a wall about what drives her to her all-so-predictable suicide attempt to her letting Miguel go. I give myself some pats on the back with Hope’s storyline, being that I’ve managed to prove that even the most pious can be corrupted by one’s own need to be free.

Discoveries of late have left me a little crestfallen; though, I hate myself for letting something as infantile as that for bringing down my high spirits. I’m still a good friend; I know it. Even though I don’t think some people think that, I still see myself as a caring person – damn the events of the past.

It’s stupid. It’s silly. I’m twenty-seven-years-old – I shouldn’t be all butt-hurt over it. But I am human, aren’t I? Admitted, a rather over-emotional one.

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