Flapjacks
Well-known member
It seems like there is something just below the surface of my consciousness that I can't access. The presence drags and nags and I have been compulsively writing short stories to draw it out. I wrote one story I liked. I've tried to write others but I haven't written anything else of the same merit, so I keep returning to that one story, waiting for something better to reveal itself to me. I read and revise, read and revise, over and over and over for hours and hours. I've written and rewritten a 20 page story for the last 4 months. tUranus in the 12th house is squaring my Rx Mercury in the 3rd house, and it stings.
Past habits and compulsions are burbling out of nowhere, diffusing my energy and disrupting my composure. I don't feel in control of myself anymore. I have trouble eating and sleeping. I avoid others more than before. I don't want to do any work. All I want is to reel around in my own head like a parasite.
I hate this so much. I don't know what to do with myself. If I had any real ******* thing to say, it might be worth it, but I fear I don't, and these wheels spin and nothing moves. I'm shouting into the dark cold space of the internet where some passerby can read and remark as if I were jangling coins on the street corner, baggy-eyed and with no future.
A sneaky idea buried itself inside when I was young - I expected I would bring something new into the world. Now with every passing year and passing failure, I may come to realize that this is not possible. I'm not sure where along the line my identity became wrapping up in it - this obsession that I must prove the legitimacy of my existence by being better than myself with no real idea of what that means. I'm so terrified of other people. If I could give something anonymously, without attachments, maybe I could survive. This need to be seen, but not recognized, is repulsive and selfish and pitiful. I can't escape this prison of my own making.
Since I am incapable of providing anything useful, I hope I am useful by example.
tUranus through the 12th is going to be a long one.
Transit chart: https://i.imgur.com/LZnUHkw.png
Past habits and compulsions are burbling out of nowhere, diffusing my energy and disrupting my composure. I don't feel in control of myself anymore. I have trouble eating and sleeping. I avoid others more than before. I don't want to do any work. All I want is to reel around in my own head like a parasite.
I hate this so much. I don't know what to do with myself. If I had any real ******* thing to say, it might be worth it, but I fear I don't, and these wheels spin and nothing moves. I'm shouting into the dark cold space of the internet where some passerby can read and remark as if I were jangling coins on the street corner, baggy-eyed and with no future.
A sneaky idea buried itself inside when I was young - I expected I would bring something new into the world. Now with every passing year and passing failure, I may come to realize that this is not possible. I'm not sure where along the line my identity became wrapping up in it - this obsession that I must prove the legitimacy of my existence by being better than myself with no real idea of what that means. I'm so terrified of other people. If I could give something anonymously, without attachments, maybe I could survive. This need to be seen, but not recognized, is repulsive and selfish and pitiful. I can't escape this prison of my own making.
Since I am incapable of providing anything useful, I hope I am useful by example.
tUranus through the 12th is going to be a long one.
Transit chart: https://i.imgur.com/LZnUHkw.png