(no subject)
Words fail me and when they don't I fail them. There is a comfort in the tautness of one's own sheath that remains unmatched. Yet it's endlessly elastic. There was a time two or so mornings ago as I sat upright in bed and fell back; stretched my arms above my head and let them flop down. That is when a character came to mind. I found myself utilizing some advice whose origins I can't recall. It has to do with not being one's protagonist. "Remember you are not her." Yet I also think that were someone to read what I've written so far, that person would think that I am indeed "her". She borders on caricature, but the introduction is deceptive like that. She makes little sense to me. But then I make little sense to myself. What will happen.
Normally I will read over what I have written and regard whatever contemptible trash I have scrawled with utter disdain and toss it aside but now it seems that whenever I return to my latest project I have something new to say, despite the fact that I do indeed despise the fucking tremendous pile of bullshit I have spewed thus far. I'm intrigued by it all nonetheless.
It's been a long time since I've dripped sweat instead of shivering back into myself and I greatly long to stand outside mynonself and yank myself out from said nonself and be at peace. Tenacity! I'm rageful and vein-y, but not quite vain-y.
Normally I will read over what I have written and regard whatever contemptible trash I have scrawled with utter disdain and toss it aside but now it seems that whenever I return to my latest project I have something new to say, despite the fact that I do indeed despise the fucking tremendous pile of bullshit I have spewed thus far. I'm intrigued by it all nonetheless.
It's been a long time since I've dripped sweat instead of shivering back into myself and I greatly long to stand outside mynonself and yank myself out from said nonself and be at peace. Tenacity! I'm rageful and vein-y, but not quite vain-y.