Stream of Consciousness Ramblings...sort of

I've gotten into a routine, as far as internet things go. I check Facebook, Youtube, Blogger, Twitter, and sometimes just for the hell of it, my MyUCLA page to see if anything exciting is happening. This just in: my Bruin Card was mailed today. I look forward to watching videos by certain YouTubers, and I read Blogs written by people I have never even met. One blogger, in particular, writes every day, and that has gotten me thinking about the begining of the year, when I aimed to complete a 365. And although it wasn't always pretty or metaphorical, it was an excellent practice at phrasing words and articulating thoughts. I think I should start writing more often. Even now, I'm struggling to find new and inventive ways to start my sentences off with words other than "I" or "The." Has my haitus from writing really led me down such a disaterous road? I've heard the best way to become a better writer is to read more, which I surely don't do enough of. During the school year I'd tell others and myself that I'd have more time to read books I actually enjoyed when I had time and was not being forced to. Truth be told, I haven't picked up a book since May. I blame work. I still feel trapped, like when I was in school. Getting paychecks is nice, but waking up every morning knowing exactly what I'm doing for a majority of it is depressing. Especially during the summer. Oh well. There's only so much complaining you can do.

Part of the problem is that I feel more creative and able to write during small, fleeting moments that must be grabbed ahold of before they flutter away. Last night, after turning off my computer and waiting for sleep to settle in, I thought to myself about the importance of writing daily. I was already in bed, and my comptuer was off, so I'd just have to hope that whatever eloquent thought that was floating around in my head would somehow stick there. The thought finds me right now, as I should probably start heading off to bed. Some point I thought of last night is surely gone, and all I can do is try to recreate the creativity I once had. Sometimes it is impossible to take advantage of even the simplest situations. Other friends of mine have been known to scribble down dreams between puffs of unconsciousness. Perhaps I should invest in a bedside notepad.

Well, there are probably more thoughts, but I'll leave them to my pillow.