It's one of those nights again- where I have to write- or die. Premodic urges, I'd like to think. Anyway anyway...

I ought to stop reading realistically sad books because they have such a strong effect on me. I mean, I can't seperate between them and real life, so I end up brooding over the fictional events of the book even when I'm with people. Which as can be imagined, highly unfortunate.
In any case, I guess I get all moody because I honestly believe they're real. Or treat them as such anyway which thus means [according to Ammu's twins], that it Counts.

Some things are meant to remain only within me.

I tried to force them out onto this glassy screen that has white background on this page but blue on another and black on yet another. But some things cannot be. forced.

I wanted to write about lit, about the books I studied, and how I loved them so. But my words didn't want to leave me, they wanted to reamain nestled within my heart. Am I Deviant? Writing as though words have life...

I love savouring words. Tasting one attentively, rolling my tounge over it cautiously before smacking my lips and chomping on it. Or letting it melt over my mouth slowly, if that was how it wanted to be explored. Art has such a science, I see it now. I love how words are so delicately wafted, coming together to either thrill my senses with its harmony, or cause such a discord within me with its pain that I arch my back in sharp discomfort. Like a violin with broken strings and no bow but plays a discordant tune on its own.
Back in school there were times when I couldn't bear returning to a piece I had pced beacuse I had wrung out every bit of juice. It becomes appalling, not unlike a piece of meat one spits out after chewing and sucking dry its flavour. The end result is something one cannot bear. All the suprises that caused the spine to tingle... they aren't there anymore.

But enough musing.

I'm sick and tired of uni applications, how it's dragging and how there are still so many dreary processes I haven't done.

Daddy just dropped a bombshell that has rendered me incapable of venting my frustrations on the application process. [I think the root of my fear is basically that I won't be allowed into uni because of some stupid thing I've done, or not done more likely.]

Daddy's thinking about moving.
shrug.
okay maybe not so shrug. It's getting harder to appear stoic.

I don't want to move.

I like bt timah a lot.

crap.



I must write, I told you when I first started this piece but the words won't come out!

I know their tricks. They'll remain in there for some time, stewing, like malovent rotten meat that will not improve with time. I'm their host and that's all. They take no notice of me, no, nor the burning anguish inside. How they will quarrel inside! Clash and come to a head, wrecking me in the process. Until finally, I tear inside myself, wretching them out, caring about nothing but that they be purged. Left with nothing inside me, I sit empty and drained.

My muse is wilful, wild and wicked. She is tempermental and destructive. Barbed and thorned. A changeling, fey and beautiful. Faery, pixie and dryad. Where have I placed myself? With such danger! I cannot leave, I am compelled to obey. Cruelly she smashes blogs to my head, so that I have no choice but to compare. Whose is better? She constantly reminds me of my audience. Would this word suit them better? How would that phrase go down with them?
She torments me, like she is doing now!
Feverishly, so feverishly.

On nights like this I have no control.
The only thing my muse does not have is substance. She is a willow in the wisp.

What am I to do? All I need is to write them out.
But they have no words yet.
That is why I cannot write them out.

They are still raw. Like raw meat.

They have no shape.


The realisation slides into me like a clean knife. I look up, startled.
And feel better.
Knowledge always makes one feel better.





I DON'T WANT TO WRITE ABOUT UNI!


I don't want to have uni to write about.




What's in the future? I don't see anything.


Maybe it's just a dark night.



sigh.
I wish I had better to write about. But I can't. You do see don't you? I can't write what I cannot.