scattered stones
I haven't actually written anything - in a creative manner - recently. And it's starting to bug me. (I have, but it wasn't purely 'creative'; it was more of a... reflection on two close friends.)
I remember a time when I used to be able to conjure up beautiful stories and engaging ditties with a snap of my fingers. Then again, it was a time that I was in pain and I had to find something good in myself and the world.
-------------
I also haven't been motivated to do anything remotely related to school. It's not that I'm finding school to be a drag or anything like that, but rather that I don't want to do my work at all. Honestly, I don't really know what I want to do any longer. I'd love to sit around all day and read my novels, which would be an utterly fabulous way to spend the day, but I can't. Work, unfortunately, still needs to be done.
-------------
Sometimes I wish I had a chance to grow up slowly.
-------------
Fuck, I'll be 24 this year. Something's not right, I can't be 24. I haven't even been 21 yet. I don't know what I've been doing with my life recently, apart from learning and reading. Talking, I guess. Talking to the people I love and care about immensely. Which isn't many, to tell the truth. But the ones I love, I love insanely, probably to an extreme.
Maybe I give too much. But that's all I know how to do.
-------------
I miss my muse. I used to dream about her in various scenes frequently, and I would write about her, or create characters based on the people around me and insert them into the scenes. I haven't dreamt about her in months.
I wonder if writers need to suffer before they can write well. Or at the very least, to experience suffering close up. Stephen King got hit by a vehicle, Poe suffered periods of depression, Salinger was one of the first soldiers to enter a concentration camp etc.
I think I've had my share of suffering - well, physical pain at least.
-------------
I wish I had a vice like smoking or drinking. Something that I could totally lose myself in. Something that I can fully immerse my mind, or lack thereof, in. Something that would bring down my defences, where I don't have to be myself with my memories for a while. It's not that I don't like being me - hell, I like me - but I want to cut away some unpleasant memories permanently. And I don't know how to do that, apart from wasting my mind on drugs. I guess repressing them might help, but I've seen enough slasher movies to know that repressing memories only results in massacres. I'm not big on massacres.
-------------
I wonder if life is just one great big existentialist crisis - happy times are the brief breaks in-between, contentment the instants when you accept this crisis and roll with it. I hope not, because I now have three great friends whom I love dearly and one of them is tirelessly trying to show me how to live life.
I remember a time when I used to be able to conjure up beautiful stories and engaging ditties with a snap of my fingers. Then again, it was a time that I was in pain and I had to find something good in myself and the world.
-------------
I also haven't been motivated to do anything remotely related to school. It's not that I'm finding school to be a drag or anything like that, but rather that I don't want to do my work at all. Honestly, I don't really know what I want to do any longer. I'd love to sit around all day and read my novels, which would be an utterly fabulous way to spend the day, but I can't. Work, unfortunately, still needs to be done.
-------------
Sometimes I wish I had a chance to grow up slowly.
-------------
Fuck, I'll be 24 this year. Something's not right, I can't be 24. I haven't even been 21 yet. I don't know what I've been doing with my life recently, apart from learning and reading. Talking, I guess. Talking to the people I love and care about immensely. Which isn't many, to tell the truth. But the ones I love, I love insanely, probably to an extreme.
Maybe I give too much. But that's all I know how to do.
-------------
I miss my muse. I used to dream about her in various scenes frequently, and I would write about her, or create characters based on the people around me and insert them into the scenes. I haven't dreamt about her in months.
I wonder if writers need to suffer before they can write well. Or at the very least, to experience suffering close up. Stephen King got hit by a vehicle, Poe suffered periods of depression, Salinger was one of the first soldiers to enter a concentration camp etc.
I think I've had my share of suffering - well, physical pain at least.
-------------
I wish I had a vice like smoking or drinking. Something that I could totally lose myself in. Something that I can fully immerse my mind, or lack thereof, in. Something that would bring down my defences, where I don't have to be myself with my memories for a while. It's not that I don't like being me - hell, I like me - but I want to cut away some unpleasant memories permanently. And I don't know how to do that, apart from wasting my mind on drugs. I guess repressing them might help, but I've seen enough slasher movies to know that repressing memories only results in massacres. I'm not big on massacres.
-------------
I wonder if life is just one great big existentialist crisis - happy times are the brief breaks in-between, contentment the instants when you accept this crisis and roll with it. I hope not, because I now have three great friends whom I love dearly and one of them is tirelessly trying to show me how to live life.
NIGEL
12:00 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home