Could I Please Be Quiet, Please?

There is so much that I want to do. Numerous simple, yet unendingly complex, thoughts I want to unscramble. Many achievements I absolutely must achieve. Yet when I convince myself that I have the time, even if a scrap of it, to make a move, even if a minute one, on these internal requests, my mind seems to recoil and initiate a sort of exhausted spasmodic dance. That's my perception of it, at least. It's hard to tell what your mind gets up to when you're trying so hard to live outside of it. 

I say that in the most personally interpretive way possible, because as I'm typing this I realise how odd it sounds. I can't even write anymore. My words shuffle towards and away from each other like a sporadic group of wild ducks. I feel as if I've been compressed into a tight, unbelievably tense version of myself that consists of 20% me and 80% of me trying to do what I believe makes me, me. This is no exaggeration. The tension I feel makes it constantly difficult for my body to move in synchronisation with my mind. 

There are so many things that I want to make a part of me. Or things that I want to make myself a part of . I'm not sure which, but either way I seem to be sure of the characteristics I want to own and put to my name. For some reason, though, I'm have trouble solidifying these things as my personality. What's completely incomprehensible about this is all I'm trying to do is participate in my interests. You'd think that'd be easy for anyone, yet I envision myself now as a piece of tracing paper, crumpled.

I convince myself that it's the trouble of time holding me back. Starting back at school after staying dormant for two years has admittedly had its consequences, namely the dumping of stresspressuresomuchstuffihavetodoyoumustcatchupjackthisispathticlookateveryoneelse onto my betraying, able head. I tell myself that I physically don't have time to contribute to hobbies and interests and that I should focus primarily on organising the mess laid out in front me. Although, I'm starting to worry. I don't want to finally be my ideal self and have nothing to prove it. 

One thing I definitely don't want to be is self-consumed, so I'm going to stop writing now.