self-devotion
Today, I resolved not to lose my temper in front of my mother. It is just about the most uphill task, and one I always fail umpteen times. This promise, perhaps, is one of the tiny hill-bumps on the Life Graph which are those hours of inspired moments, which are as quickly dissolved in the aftermath of an 'inspirational' book (none of those self-help miserables, as I fail to understand the logic of an imperfect human coaching/commanding another; experience you may have in a basketful -- with your modern Greek tragedies and PhDs and what have you -- but the faux-sincere patronising way it is usually delivered -- with all front cover all bright and cheery and devoid of the gritty details of a real life -- puts me off). It is near akin to running through someone's head with a pickaxe - a thought fuelled by equal parts hormones and late night gory movies; I'm the one to talk, to indulge, but never brave enough if the Time comes, if ever it does.
It's fortunate that the day is ending in a minute.
I should commence writing a Christmas-themed story. It's a pact I made with myself following the closure of Exams Season - to become as prolific as I possibly can (before collapsing in a heap, head on desk, all ideas spent -- as if something like this is going to happen any time soon). A pact I made with the Writer portion, perhaps, but surely there have been clamourous protests going on in the Idler's section. At times I feel as if too much fantasy could risk someone splintering into persons -- too many roles, situations, dreamlands of old which people as old (as mature!) as you are have forsaken, have locked the door to this era forever and subjected the key to treatment via stomach acid. But Christmas is a nebulous topic - of cheery things that wouldn't fit my skin the way the darkest corners to, but then again I have had a few waltzes with the sunshine, with a touch of sentimentality, in the past, so no doubt it would be manageable, if I could rouse myself to, but it would be half the fun.
I can't help thinking of this journal as part autobiography, part confessional altar and part...pieces of hopelessness the police finds after a person has put a gun to her head. Granted, it is most likely not as glamourous, nor film-worthy interesting, nor is it the most accurate sketch of the life I had. It is ironic that in documenting a life, the subject matter is both the most perceptive historian and the most meticulous Minister For Propaganda, but I am almost certain someone more famous somewhere else has already mentioned this more eloquently.
Potential stories which may never be written aside, after reading chesswar, which is a really interesting Hogwarts AU (for once without the main characters getting in the way, due to the time frame, one can admire Hogwarts in its splendour, and create a few originals to savour its grounds), which I reckon is still in its infancy, I might (where possibilities elude me) attempt to trend on (previously forbidden, for rationality's sake) Hogwarts territory. It is not as if I have yet to try (a thousand times, twisting with plotlines in my own head, much too...personal to reveal), but the actual writing for public viewing takes time and an awful lot of guts. (Mut, in German.)
In Kuroshitsuji-verse, I would like to think that in an alternate universe, distanced by stars and dimensions from the one thus shown to us, Ciel and Alois are friends.
(Between last night and this day, I found myself dwelling quite a bit on Alois Trancy, for reasons my mind has yet to divine or show me, as I think it already knows, the answer meshed within its impulses. The sole reason I have always been keeping up with the series, both 1 and 2, and the OVAs wasn't the 'children' -- one may easily hazard a guess -- so it came as a little surprise. Those poor things deserve quite a bit of happiness, if I may say so.)
I found Lullatone's Soundtracks For Everyday Adventures; my life is near complete.
It's fortunate that the day is ending in a minute.
I should commence writing a Christmas-themed story. It's a pact I made with myself following the closure of Exams Season - to become as prolific as I possibly can (before collapsing in a heap, head on desk, all ideas spent -- as if something like this is going to happen any time soon). A pact I made with the Writer portion, perhaps, but surely there have been clamourous protests going on in the Idler's section. At times I feel as if too much fantasy could risk someone splintering into persons -- too many roles, situations, dreamlands of old which people as old (as mature!) as you are have forsaken, have locked the door to this era forever and subjected the key to treatment via stomach acid. But Christmas is a nebulous topic - of cheery things that wouldn't fit my skin the way the darkest corners to, but then again I have had a few waltzes with the sunshine, with a touch of sentimentality, in the past, so no doubt it would be manageable, if I could rouse myself to, but it would be half the fun.
I can't help thinking of this journal as part autobiography, part confessional altar and part...pieces of hopelessness the police finds after a person has put a gun to her head. Granted, it is most likely not as glamourous, nor film-worthy interesting, nor is it the most accurate sketch of the life I had. It is ironic that in documenting a life, the subject matter is both the most perceptive historian and the most meticulous Minister For Propaganda, but I am almost certain someone more famous somewhere else has already mentioned this more eloquently.
Potential stories which may never be written aside, after reading chesswar, which is a really interesting Hogwarts AU (for once without the main characters getting in the way, due to the time frame, one can admire Hogwarts in its splendour, and create a few originals to savour its grounds), which I reckon is still in its infancy, I might (where possibilities elude me) attempt to trend on (previously forbidden, for rationality's sake) Hogwarts territory. It is not as if I have yet to try (a thousand times, twisting with plotlines in my own head, much too...personal to reveal), but the actual writing for public viewing takes time and an awful lot of guts. (Mut, in German.)
In Kuroshitsuji-verse, I would like to think that in an alternate universe, distanced by stars and dimensions from the one thus shown to us, Ciel and Alois are friends.
(Between last night and this day, I found myself dwelling quite a bit on Alois Trancy, for reasons my mind has yet to divine or show me, as I think it already knows, the answer meshed within its impulses. The sole reason I have always been keeping up with the series, both 1 and 2, and the OVAs wasn't the 'children' -- one may easily hazard a guess -- so it came as a little surprise. Those poor things deserve quite a bit of happiness, if I may say so.)
I found Lullatone's Soundtracks For Everyday Adventures; my life is near complete.