Examples of Morning Pages! Fe-flow!

  • Midnight page on anxiety, the pain of being alive

Today I wanted to talk about my special friend, Anx.

Anx has been there for me throughout my entire life, I couldn’t have done anything without her.

She was by my side for every thing I deemed important, making sure I was fully aware of how painful failure could be. Never lose track of the 1001 possibilities for this to go wrong. ‘Cause I got to be prepared, you know?

Oh, I hated the bitch. She would suddenly creep up on me, caressing my forehead, pulling my hair, hammering my brain, paralyzing my shoulders. Then she would reach for the heart and start throwing rocks at it, then stabbing it with ice.
Boom-boom-boom, boom-boom-boom!

Faster, come on, faster! Not good enough, not quick enough, tik tok… tik tok… the day is over and nothing is getting done!

Why won’t she leave me alone? I thought. I’m punching back with all my strength, never missing any encounter. This was supposed to get easier, but it’s not. Am I reaching farther? Am I feeding the monster by giving her space to grow?

And then one day it hit me.

This traitor was into my homeboy, Kontroll. She wanted to eat him alive and the more he tried to ignore her, the more tenacious she became.

You know what, I’m tired of fighting you. I give up. Stay here, do your thing. Whatever. I don’t have energy for this anymore. I’ll just ignore you both and continue with what I’m doing.

You should edit this, make it GOOD! It’s not good!


Now if you please, PLEASE have mercy, I need to get some sleep.


Morning Pages at 10 years old!

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Billy ordered a Monstrum Supreme from Chalupa Guitar and wandered outside. He found a strange car and sat down upon the hood to embark on the Monstrum journey. It was what Billy had anticipated: soggy, stale, heat-lamped to death, delicious.

“What you doing is?!” Billy heard the voice before seeing him. “What makes you sit upon my car like this?” The man bounced toward Billy, who held fast to his seat. This man was the most soft-boiled man Billy had ever seen.

“Hello,” Billy said, “your car looked good enough to eat off of, so I did.”

The man stood there staring at Billy. His seven piece suit was flipping in the breeze. “Well then,” the man said, “if that’s the case, continue perching. I have no qualms with your perceptive abilities.”

“So what do you do?” Billy said.

“I am president of the International Mortgage Survivors Group. Here–” the man handed Billy his business card. Billy pondered it and smeared it with medium-hot-mild sauce out of admiration.

“That’s very impressive,” Billy said. “But I have no mortgage. All I have is a souped-up Radio Flyer.”

“Turn the card over…”

It read: Radio Flyer Vagrancy Representative Extraordinaire.

Billy was speechless.

“Hop in,” the man said. “Let’s blow this chalupa stand.”

And they did. It was on the news: “17 dead in a Chalupa Guitar explosion–what many believe to be an act of terrorism. The suspects are still at large.”

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I’ve always had this tendency toward rebellion, or at least as far back as I can remember. I seem to have a natural instinct to hate any and all things in the mainstream. Whatever the “hip” thing is, I stay as far away from it as possible. It’s not that I purposefully do this, I just naturally despise whatever seems to be followed by any crowd. Maybe it’s because I just don’t like people all that much. Some individuals are great, but generally the human race as a collective annoys me.

And if anyone tells me to do a certain thing, I’ll naturally drift to an alternative. It’s just one of those things that I can’t help but to do. Or I’ll try to suggest a more logical alternative. Most of the time I can be very persuasive.

Also I can tell if someone has deep-rooted beliefs, and if they express those beliefs in such a way as to declare them absolute truth, I’ll pound right back with something that hopefully shakes this up. It doesn’t matter what it is. In my opinion nothing is sacred. And the second someone declares something sacred and absolute, I feel that I must flip their little world upside down. I don’t know why I have this urge, but I must admit that shaking people’s worldviews up is incredibly tasty.

Here’s the beginning of a novel/novella I’ve started, guys. I’m writing it on my typewriter just because I love using a typewriter.

Please check it out and let me know what you guys think so far… Is it strong? Compelling? Boring? Drab?

Oh my God, I’ve only just seen this and absolutely love it, @schlopadoo!

Thanks, Stewart! :smile:

Hope. Again.

– Putting this back up because someone shared this painting today with the caption “where am I?” and I didn’t know how else to deal with the eeriness. –

I have always wondered what it was like to be genuinely interested, to be able to keep an endless enthusiasm alive with every new encounter with another person that you will entertain yourself with. So much unexplored potential and the little words they let out blend to form a beam of light that you accidentally caught a glimpse of. The signal you were waiting for to scrutinize, delve into, connect with, but mostly, invade them.

You sharpen your senses like a predator and start the fiery dance charade. Sucking in their every breath, every tension in their muscles, every change of tone to quickly brush off a momentary feeling of embarrassment. A set of patterns unfolds in front of you and you see their thoughts forming, words falling out of their mouth like pouring rain, keeping the rhythm on their predestined path. You hoped for a thunderstorm, but all you got is a monotonous autumn rain.

You slice through this person’s soul with your mind’s eye. You kindly pretend you didn’t see the wiggly road they took to make themselves look like a good person, the clumsy explanations and skillful avoidance of their own contradictions, their laziness so they won’t have to make an effort to think for themselves, their cowardice so they won’t have to take a good look in the mirror. Their dismissal of pain, justice, truth, integrity and responsibility so they can still sleep at night. You follow their weakness converting into a need to put others down, their sly tactics to gain power over you to make themselves feel comfortable again, their fidgety impatience to brush it off, laugh it off, end the dissonance. You’re sorry for them and almost want to smile, if only you didn’t feel like screaming.

Disappointment. Hypocrisy. Illusions. What do these words even mean when most people take them on as shields to disassociate themselves from their own rot? Like double locks and chains that they’ve put on the doors to their private basements.

And you, you ruthlessly broke through all your doors and defenses and went down nine circles of hell to melt in your… humaneness.

You can’t bear seeing humanity for what it is and still holding on to some ideal hope for its redemption. Living in torment, you’re looking for a way out, but you can’t escape your own mind, you remain a prisoner of your own nature.

You think self-flagellation will help you with that? Are you trying to destroy yourself to make yourself pure again, punishing yourself for being born? Cutting trenches through your skin and guts to spill out people’s sins? To help you bear your hatred towards them as you desperately need them because you can’t deal with the inconsistency?

Who’s going to save you now, huh? You’re crying in despair, but there’s no one there.

The deeper you dig, the lonelier it gets.

You’re swallowing yourself, disintegrating into a black hole, rejoining nothingness…

But there’s always hope.


Fucking yay. Because my heart broke a little when this disappeared.

Slept right past this. Bummmmmer!

I feel like out of fear, I put everything in the wrong place. So it cannot work. And is confusing.


Fi has a line, and Fe is continually wanting to crawl over it…

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There wasn’t much that Mr. Sanders could do. Dozens of hairless monkeys had invaded his pristine condo a couple days ago. They had hair before they came, but they stole Mr. Sanders’ razors–every single one–and shaved each other down to the skin.

Mr. Sanders could not even enter his own kitchen: the monkeys barricaded it with furniture and had round-the-clock guards standing at the entrance. Each of them wielded large kitchen knives, so there was no getting by them. Any time Mr. Sanders tried to go in, the monkey guards would holler, screech, then shit in their hands, holding it up in a threatening manner.

One time one of them even threw it: it smacked Mr. Sanders in the face, but there was nothing he could do… He walked away in shame up to take a shower–already late for work.

Late one night, something in Mr. Sanders snapped. “There must be something I can do,” he thought, “I can’t live like this. I don’t live next to a zoo or a jungle. How the hell did they find their way here?”

The next day Mr. Sanders decided to call animal control:

“Please, I’m desperate… These monkeys are ruining my life. I’m going broke from eating out all the time. I haven’t been laid in a month…”

“We’ll send somebody right away, sir. Don’t worry.”

About an hour later, a man dressed in what looked like a combat hazmat suit banged on the door.

“Please, come in,” Mr. Sanders said, “I’m so glad you’re here!”

The animal control guy had a hazmat mask on. He sounded like Darth Vader when he spoke. “Show me the kitchen,” he said. “That’s where they’re congregating, correct?”

“Yes, right this way…”

As they approached the kitchen, the monkeys started hooting and hollering. Piles of poop started flying from behind the couch barricade, striking both Mr. Sanders and the animal control guy.

“This is more serious than I thought…” the animal control guy said, “They are extremely organized. We have to call back-up…”

He grabbed his radio: “We’ve got a code Deep Brown. I need back-up, ASAP.”

Not even ten minutes later the sound of helicopters filled the air outside. Mr. Sanders looked out one of his windows at the scene outside: there were at least three helicopters hovering, two tanks rolled down the street from opposite directions, and dozens of people dressed like the animal control guy marched toward the condo.

“Jesus, lord,” Mr. Sanders shouted. “Is this really that serious?”

The animal control guy looked Mr. Sanders dead in the eyes with nothing but stone-cold seriousness on his face. “Damn right it is, kid… We need to end this before it gets any worse. I mean–good lord, man–they all shaved each other. You should’ve called us a lot sooner.”

“What’s up with that–the shaving?”

“You don’t want to know, kid… Come on, we have to get outside.”

As soon as they got outside the animal control guy ran over to what looked like his superior. Mr. Sanders took in his surroundings with astonishment. It looked like a scene out of a war movie. Men with guns were everywhere. They took up defensive positions behind the tanks and humvees, aiming their rifles at the house. The helicopters circled overhead, shining their spotlights down through the windows of the condo. On the roofs of buildings across the street, snipers were poised and ready.

“Mr. Sanders!” the animal control guy called, “Would you step over here, please!”

The animal control guy kept quiet and let his superior talk: “Now, Mr. Sanders, could you tell me, roughly, how many monkeys are in your condo?”

“I’d say at least a dozen or so. Maybe more…”

“Jesus…” the superior looked up to the sky as if to ask God for help. “Let’s try gassing the place…” He started waving his arms above his head, looking in the direction of the men closest to the condo.

“Listen up!” he shouted. They all turned to look at their commander. “Gas it!” he ordered, “I’m talking light that fucker up!”

About a dozen of the men got into position and launched gas grenades through the windows of the condo. Loud thumps started sounding off in the building and gas poured out through the broken windows. The monkeys screeched and, all of a sudden, the grenades started flying back into the street.

Gas filled the air.

“Quick!” the animal control guy yelled, "Put this on!

Mr. Sanders grabbed the gas mask and shoved it on as fast as he could…