I am crippled.

I can't write candidly in my blog anymore. I just can't. The sure knowledge that my audience are people I know well - my teachers, my friends, my classmates - just keeps me from writing what I used to think was beautiful and worth writing about. All the inner things, the large things, the ones that I don't discuss in everyday life. I'm not able to discuss them anymore because this blog has become a part of everyday life; it is a conversation with my friends.

I am left with a lot to say. A lot to say. But I won't know where to say it. I don't know how to say it. I don't know who to say it to. Talk about the power of dreams - and movies - what it's like there, the ride home, the secret things, talk about what I wish for (could come true), talk about devastation, talk about the way teenagers aren't allowed legitimate emotions anymore, the way -

But I just can't say it here. I'm left with my story, which is coming along well, and very slowly. Very slowly. Too slowly to say everything that's on my mind all the time, everything that needs to come out, the demons that need to be named. Maybe I'll turn back to private journals, my little black notebook, maybe. I need to reinstate privacy in my life, so I can realize how to talk to myself again. My interior monologue isn't anything so much as an interior loop, a broken record, fractured images and feelings. Writing is how I process. That's what I do. And I'm not able to process on this blog anymore.

That's why I haven't been posting much lately. Because I need to be able to process whatever's going on in my life, and I can't. I believe that my blog is crippled for it.

I don't know if I'll be taking a hiatus or not, since the past few months have pretty much been one long hiatus with a few sparse posts in them. This is just the way things are on Title Pending right now, so for all ten of my readers, don't let your expectations get too high.