Restlessness is a four letter word.

Yeah. Basically, instead of writing up the oh so fascinating results of my psychology interviews, I ended up writing a random blurb for myself. Not much, sadly, but something. And I find this to be somewhat positive, since I haven’t been able to write anything creative for a while, which made me sad until now. Anyway, here’s what I came up with in five minutes:

 Silence

 There was always a buzz, a certain murmur in the back of my mind that never went away. My thoughts whispered to themselves, chuckling like the insane in an asylum. Was I my own asylum? My skull must have been the padded white walls, constantly pushing in towards its claustrophobic prisoners. My thoughts must have thrown themselves madly against their cushioned prison in an effort to get out. But their attempts were futile, and they all ended up the same: huddled in brightly lit corner, trying to make sense out of anything. And now?Silence.

Really? Have the crickets in my brain stopped chirping? Have the spiders stopped weaving? Have the cockroaches stopped scattering? Am I hollow? Am I real? Am I worth anything? Or am I simply huddled in my own mental corner, waiting for someone to pick me up?

I’m mildly happy with it, considering that I did it in such a short amount of time. I might revise/expand it if I ever get time, but I highly doubt that will happen. One question though. Why is it that my “better” creative writing has to do with being insane?

The worst part is that it’s almost true. But really, the mental health of any writer should be questioned. If being mentally askew means that I become a better writer, than I embrace my insanity wholeheartedly.