I've been trying so hard for what feels like forever to write something on here. (partially because if I don't I'll get a bad grade on my 1500 words that are due tomorrow...) The cursor has been blinking at me in mockery. I've been reading gorgeous poetry by Ray Bradbury and John Keats the last week and I guess I've become a little jealous. Sometimes I wish I could write like them, but then I realize that I do love to write and I'm okay at it I guess, but my forte is not with a pen, but with my feet. Or, rather, with all the lovely appendages God gave me.
I guess I have writers block. Because I haven't been able to choreograph, either. It's absolutely killing me since I'm running out of time. The more I put it off, the more showings will sneak up behined me and bit me in the butt. Which, then I will release a flurry of profound (yet, not so profound as to offend) words and run around like a chicken with its head cut off. Or maybe that's what I need: pressure. Maybe I work better under pressure. Maybe that's why I'm writing this right now, or maybe that's why I will be able to choreograph in due time. It all relates back to pressure.
Speaking of pressure, I'm feeling quite a lot this week. Try outs inch closer every second. I'm starting to do what I just described above, except I have the dance, I just don't feel like it's good enough. Or maybe it's that I feel like I'm not good enough. Well, I know that's a lie. If I don't make it, it's not that I'm not good enough, but that it just wasn't right for me. But, then, what is right for me? That's a question I find myself constantly asking my subconsious. I think my subconsious hides things from me. It knows things and likes to play hide-and-seek with me in order to keep me working for what it knows I want. I think that's why I've been so drivin to put myself in painful and difficult positions, because I know I have the gas to do it. I just need to put key to ignition and foot to peddle.