November 16th, 2002

Nescafe rabbit

One of those nights.

One of those nights where everyone's here, watching movies, and I don't want them to be.
Was kind of enjoying the afternoon alone...with maybe Matt here. Once in a while, there's just too much, too many people. The introvert in me takes over.

Socialising instead of RP, like they have every time, paying no attention and then complaining that they just 'can't get into it'. Talking so much that I couldn't follow what was going on. It's the only chance I get any more to exercise my creativity, to make something and someone real. Can hardly write any more - it's like the ideas are all drained out of my head, my heart, my soul - flat and empty. Too many movies, too much TV, too much studying. I feel so...
unoriginal. Head full of other people's words, other people's ideas, other people's visions crowding out my own. Dry facts dessicating the fountains of words I had always thought were bottomless. The press and pace, the pounding rushes of words that have driven me to seek out more, to learn, to's all gone, empty, dry.

I tried to write a poem today. I drew a little flower on the top of the page and realised that my mind was empty. I could not come up with even a line, an inspiration, a single verse. I tried prose. I wrote two pages. Two pages that I don't think are the right style for the story I was trying to continue....but I can't even tell.

Too much. I'm never alone, and when I am, I have to work. No more time to spend sitting, staring aimlessly out at the night and the world that once gave me words, fed the fires of passion within me.
Too much. I'm lost and I'm silent, empty and bound. Concrete and steel, paper and ink and soulless facts without faces or forms, they have me tied up, tied tight so that I can hardly move. And this prison...

Can you escape from such a thing once it has captivated you? I can't turn back, can't turn away. I must finish what I have begun, and that path requires that I submit to the will of words.
Maybe next year, if I can survive that long, if this does not salt the fertile fields that I once was, maybe between the pain and the exhaustion and the endless learning of rote and relic, maybe I can find inspiration as I once did. Maybe then.

Pain has always been my muse, suffering my fount. Why is it that when I most need the catharsis of writing, there is nothing?
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