I ought to be asleep, however my mind is whirring with thoughts. They keep nudging at the outermost reaches of my skull and sleep will not come. I lay in the hotel bed listening to my own breathing and my eyes are assaulted by the bright green protrusions that are the digital faces of the microwave and the smoke detector. I hear movement upstairs and observe how the orange light creeps under the gaudy curtains in broken and chaotic waves. I lay on the floor by the waves, hoping that the moving shadow of some passerby will break them. I have a race in the morning at 10 o'clock, and must be up by 7. My mind must quiet. I have to rest. I want to talk, I want to-- need to-- articulate the idle wanderings of my mind to make them real. Rationalise them, discern their meaning, and make them dissolve. What is it that I want? I hear the soft scraping and flexing of the pad of paper and the scratching of the pen tip. I am writing. I love to write. But will it be worth anything? Will the rambling I scratch onto hotel notepads be appreciated by even a singular soul?
"Well written, but it had a sort of 'so what?' effect for me..."
My mediocrity gnaws at me. Sure I can write, but what sets me apart from scores and scores of other aspiring writers and artists? I'm terrified. Every person wants to be accepted, particularly when they bear their soul. I write with my heart on my sleeve-- at least at my best-- but lately I have guarded myself. Rejection on any level is paralysingly frightening. My true opinions and emotions are instead veiled in wit and syntax. I peer into the corner of the dingy hotel mirror as I sit on the sill of the bath. Shadow surrounds my features. Hair billows freely in rippling waves around my shoulders, draped carelessly across my high cheekbones. A pretty face-- so they say-- but what more? Hips and long legs, gawky height that I have yet to master with grace. What of my mind? What of my soul? I was repulsed by every boy who sincerely recognised that a mind occupied my head. In doing so I have made myself accountable to no one. They expect nothing but soft lips moving sensuously and cleverly in time with their own. I pushed the possibility of genuine love away in a flourish of pheromones and self loathing. My eyes are red with exhaustion in my dimly lit reflection. I need to sleep. Despite the loud clamour inside of my head. Clearly I should not have gotten my hands on a Sylvia Plath novel.