Merry Christmas

It's a lazy Christmas night.
Nonstop family for hours. Too many presents.
Chaos.
It's theraputic to know that no one reads this. Just the tumbling of my thoughts into a white rectangle. I haven't written in awhile. I suppose the point of blogging is to allow others into you're life, to follow you're minds wanderings and whatever else one posts. Since I have lacked an audience, a blog has not been necessary.
But tonight a part of me wants to scream my heart to the world. It wants to be known. It's dying to be heard in a world that spins too fast and hears too many voices. It is breaking for several reasons, rejoicing for even more. The questions come more than the answers, the thoughts more than words. Sometimes I'm suffocating in my own unattainable ideas. I'm suffocating in all that I want to be, all I want to sing and achieve and do. The ground I want to walk is vast, the love I want to fall into place is unrealistic. I'm a victim of my own imagination.
I've been writing stories in my head lately. Driving down the streets of the city in the rain, and each destination has a carefully concocted and beautifully played out plot. Usually having to do with a boy (this confession makes me squimish, I've never been one to obsess with the male sex) and some artistically derived encounter that includes symbolism, acute camera angles, and perfectly lengthy lashes. Sensibility said goodbye. And I am suffocating in my own stories.