frustré

many things are simultaneously frustrating me.

apparently, the french language interprets the word frustration as frustration. it's not even different.

also, i might be going crazy. i gave up writing for lent and sometimes it was forgettable but most days thoughts would inhabit my mind's eye (see: josh ritter) like fireflys in a field. the near inexpressible frustration (i say near because i wouldn't even bother talking about it if it truly was inexpressible) at not being able to write down lines or paragraphs or cliches or truths pales in comparison to now having the freedom to write but no subject with which to begin.

maybe i haven't learned my lesson.
maybe i will fast again.
maybe, i will become a renowned writer by rumour only, and never actually publish anything of importance but be known as that person who is constantly fasting from writing because she is actually too brilliant to pen even a single word. people will search libraries and bookstores for any paper with my name as author. and the only piece of prose they will find will be about a prism in a lamp store with no hope of its potential until one day it is placed exactly where it was intended and sees through the reflection of the sun a rainbow, which, it finally realizes, is the very essence of its potential. they will find this, of course, and see my name at the bottom, next to audrey brooks (see: my grandmother) but they will not believe it is really my writing. in fact, they will swear it cannot be my work. and they will never know the effort my grandmother put into publishing a story from her granddaughter's college writing class.

i hope i can be even slightly that elusive someday.

frustration #3. when anyone says fustration instead of frustration. high school history is all i have to say about that.

finally, i miss my brothers. that is frustrating me a lot right now.

goodnight.