Writing and Dreaming and Reading...

This moment of stillness, dragged through the morning, becomes weary in the afternoon. My body hums, it wants to run. My mind grows petty and restless. A place calls to me. And suddenly, I'm motion, I have to find escape. 

I force myself to stay still at times, be patient. My time will come, adventure will beckon. I turn impatiently to the stories, where everybody else is out there. Except for me. I grind my teeth and envy. I want to be out there right in the story. I want to be in that scene.

But I can't always be there. Sometimes it's not my place. There's a reason those stories are stories and not mine to embrace. Even if I can't wait for the next to come along. I go alone and spin my own yarn. 

And so I will. 

I want Buddha. By Osamu Tezuka.

I've been enamoured, fascinated, by lines and words. The lyrics of the songs I found. The clever twist, the deep intent, the shifting meanings (depending on the time of day) keeps me thinking and humming along. And I'd listen to it again and again till I get absolutely sick of it. I have to actually listen. And stop my train of thoughts from following the drum and the guitar. 

I'm just trying to sing along.

I fear I'm turning into a mindless drone. It's so easy to just switch off and focus on mindless tasks. Instead of thinking so much, in split fractions taking different directions, my mind just goes numb, dull but intensely focused on something, somewhere, somehow. Like a killer, intent on the kill, denying everything else that isn't related. But the moment I shake the frame of mind off I wonder what came over me. It's like returning to the real world (but I never left in the first place). I wonder if the killers feel that way too.  

Writing. Is so selfish isn't it? Mine is unfortunately filled with "I"s. Lots and lots of "I"s.

1. The internet.

2. The phone. 

3. Chocolates in the fridge.

4. Warm showers.

5. Hugs.

6. Free washing machine.

7. My own room. 

8. My books.

9. To be able to cook.

10. The plasma TV. 

11. The memories?

I fear it's very rare that I write without drawing from my emotions. And these emotions are reactions from what happens around me. And what happens around me, from my point of view, I fear may vex and break and cause destruction. And the last thing I need to do is destroy myself.

I have been visited by a muse tonight. It is the moonlight.

If it has to be a story it cannot merely be a drama of daily proportions. It has to be something bigger than that. I could not, for the life of me, stand by and ponder the movement of characters from one mundane space to another. Doing the regular, bland things. Like mindless zombies, (or even mindful ones) it will be too much like every day. It'll be escapism. 

Don't get me wrong. Everyday magic happens too. But I can't just do days and human drama. The emo, the angst, is too banal by itself. 

Ok, I give up, I'm making my statements redundant.

The point is, the story has to be a fantasy.

It's not merely a genre, is it?

"Convince me, that this is truly love." 

I am faced with a conundrum. Where do my characters settle in? The twist and turn of my queerly self fashioned archiac speech or the hundrum snap of modern diction? Or even, a whole new language thus an alien culture? (But then again I don't know very much of the theory of liguistics.) Both possessing unique charm. Both a form of colour.

Damn, sidetracked! I don't really know what the story is about anymore. Only the love is there. Maybe I'll dream about it... One could always hope. 

When mind is stripped of every thought,

And there's a blank white space ready to filled up,

Ink and graphite lay ready in hands,

Just cursed inspiration has not shown itself.

Time waits for no man,

But creation waits for luck, 

And with luck, hope of talent,

For this might not work out.

That clean void and volume,

Is the birthplace of a thought,

A true something out of nothing,

Itching to be born.

forced intimacy

unsuspecting muse

As though it's imbued with some sort of power.

She said she suffered from a disease called perfectionism. In the end I think that's what killed her.

It's liberating, talking about my family.

I know, I'm anal.

Then he told me he loved me. I believed him.

symbolic clutter

Ambition. My dirty little secret.

I consider resucitating my murder theory.

I move away from them...

The gallery is crowded, but we are  alone in the middle of a space between people.

"...Like she's transported you somehow, to another place." "I'm not sure I really want to go to that place."

There's something really sexy... about someone this smart. (Oh boy, I knew this for ages.)

Zach strikes me as one of those people who appreciate when life should be celebrated. He's probably the kind of guy who would throw you a surprise party for your birthday, or send you flowers because it's Friday.

Evocative.

I suspect he's probably good at most things he does.

Oh, God, the thought occurs to me then; I'm the third wheel. And I don't even know it.

God, is that you?

Time, money, encouragement. Talent.

Dude, you call it art, it is art.

Although entirely against my will I seem to be falling in love with Zach Roberts. That I appear to have no say in this matter baffles me.

My heart lurches at the sound of his name.

Isn't this the ultimate irony?

And I told you, he's not the one.

... and all seems right again in the world the way it does sometimes in the company of a good friend.

Maybe that's why anyone collects anything. To feel a connection.

For today the House of Hades will be called the saviors of Olympus.

Golden blood, immortal ichor, spewed from the wound, making a waterfall... 

Nobody steals my pegasus. 

...she wasn't trying to be beautiful and didn't even care about that. She just was.

...waiting for heroes that never came back.

There should be a hundred million stories to tell.

Fly. With the bronze wings of Deadalus.

... I watched a god die.

There were too many good-byes.

I want blue cake and ice-cream. And Stygian sword.

I've heard stories about people,

And them falling in love,

I've been told that I could be one,

Only if I'm whole.

But I fear it may never happen, 

For I've been through hell,

One of my own creation,

But the horror is very real.

And the scars and burdens of my past,

Make me weary, make me crack,

When all I have is dreaming,

I can't help myself.

I want a love of my own,

A safe haven, to guide me through the storm,

A reason to smile when times are low,

And never ever to feel lonesome.

But I fear I ask for too much,

For I cannot reveal my mishappen soul,

I cannot break more than I already have,

I cannot hurt or put burden to another self. 

In the midst of my self destruction,

Would you still take me if I'm broken?

If I'm bruised, marred and fallen?

Would you love me even then?

The hope, though futile as it may be,

Carries me forward to wherever may be,

When my self is whole and I'd be ready,

For love and you and the rest of living.