~~ writing & love & mostly triteness, really. sigh.

of all the stupid things that come to my head when i'm avoiding other things... like, well, the rescribo fic refuses to coalesce into my brain, and i can't write for peanuts. i should shoot myself and get it over with, except that's entirely too melodramatic. i have reccer's angst, i think. i don't want to rec anything unless i can rec -everything-, and i can't rec everything until i -review- everything. it's a vicious cycle. i can't -review- everything 'cause i don't have the energy to -read- everything. i don't have the energy 'cause it's summer and i'm lazy in a different way from winter. i don't want to -do- anything except watch boys snog and drink cool liquids and possibly escape to barbados. except that makes me think of barbatos, the little demon from `books of magic'. i do so miss him.

( ...somehow, i once again got onto the embarrassingly common topic of being in love with [their] love. how awfully trite of me. )

it's awful, it really is. i dislike fanaticism, blind faith, and this reminds me of that. but it's also love, horrid obsessive love, and that's even harder to reason with. sometimes it seems that everyone is searching for something to -make sense-, something to comfort them and reassure them that the world is as it should be, or it -could- be. i suppose people cling to religion and cynicism and pain and drugs and sex. i don't have religion, and i dislike pain and well, the sex would not be a sure bet, let's just leave it at that. there are all these other things to be in love with-- beauty and poetry and magic and writing and my own imagination. but it's only the fantasy of love that has that thrill, that combines it all-- sex & beauty & poetry & magic, that -kick-, the feeling like you're constantly -there-, in the flow of it, able to access with a thought.

i want that distance, i really do. the writer's distance. i feel near-sighted, almost blinded by my own desire, this horrible knowledge that i'll never be really -good- until i can detach myself, use my passion without having it use me. and i want to be really good. oh, i realize i'm -better- sometimes, better at wordcraft, better at rhythm, able to feel the flow of the words more than most. but it's not enough, really, and i get lost in dreams of what could be, but maybe nothing ever could be, and it's the discomfort that drives us all. who the hell knows, anyway -.-

( ...and somewhere around here i get carried away talking about my idea of writer's circles and why i write and the communal dream of it all and ...well... fandom, i guess. )