Oh, life. You are becoming...banal.
I'm still stuck in writer's hell, and this is beginning to worry me tremendously. There's so much inspiration running circles around my head it's like my thoughts can't breathe; and yet I can't wrestle anything into shape without toppling the entire house of cards. And it's horrible, because everything's so dense - temperate forests of white rabbits and tea parties laid out on the lawn, stifling humidity, blackbirds, transient sunlight amidst Sofia Coppola leaves; candles, disenchantment, coming doom, transcendental purity. The gusts of wind that precede summertime storms, you and I spread out beneath the oak in the churchyard, to talk of dreaming in that dark shadow. None of this makes sense, I know; but it's all woven into some grand tapestry in my head - one that I don't know how to unravel. And I can't write...I can't.
In another of those random interjections that I seem to be becoming rather fond of lately, there's this sudden but extreme temptation to grow my fringe out and my hair back down to my waist, in a wave of nostalgia for my security cloud of an uncontrollable mane (why I miss this, I do not know.) Something in my gut is telling me that this would be a Very Bad Idea, seeing as there is only so much hair that can be balanced on a petite 5 "2 frame without looking like a Japanese ghost or a walking haystack, but oh my, the thought is suddenly very appealing.
Something's killing my creativity. What say you, life? I want to sound my barbaric yawp over the mountains and all that's coming out is...the faintest ghost of a whisper
(Dear Sophie, please GET OFF THE BLOODY COMPUTER and stop being distracted by random food magazines / ethereally beautiful poetry / pretty tumblr pictures and head back to Reality i.e. Unemployment, Inflationary Gaps, Binomal Distribution;
love, Your A Levels.)
Current Mood: scattered
Current Music: The Script - Before the Worst