Nchanter (nchanter) wrote,

writers block

analogies, adjectives, all, gone from my head. i have these amazing deep philisopical disscussions with myself, in my head, about where i am right now, every day, and i can't seem to get a single one down. about truth, love, life, friendship, the normal babblings that go down in this space and every time i sit down infront of the glowing pad i get *STUCK* in the mud of my own *BULLSHIT* tears are supposed to be great fodder for this stuff, but they drain me instead of fule the furnase, and i am no longer moved to tirading rage. i am BORED. i am BLOCKED and this is BULLSHIT. even this is comeing out only in dribbles, like i have a brita attatched to my fingers like i do to the facet on the kitchen sink.

and fiction is only worse. there are stories that i have been working on for *years* now and i get these great ideas while at work, something about how a female-only society would actually WORK and how they would acctually be tought about men, and re-production, but as a vulger primitive thing like the animals, like that episode of star trek where Riker falls in love with *whats her name* who is a *whatsit* that comes from a species with no gender, except i wouldn't do that no-gender shit, it really would all be famale, with fems and butches and that being ENCURAGED instead of SUPPRESSED. but i can't put it into anything useful for the parts i already have written. and i don't have to include it but i need to write it as a refferance, 'cause otherwise, i'll just loose the cohesiveness and controdict myself and i HATE that about bad SF. that's what MAKES something bad SF for me. lack of cohesiveness, consistancy.

and i hate crying. i'm not even sure WHY i've been crying. i cried two nights ago, i cried this morning, and as much as darxus triggered it, it really wasn't his fault. it's, something else within me. i think it's the fact that i really don't like living alone, that this place isn't much more togeather than it was when i moved in, and i feel so ALONE in that task. i thought i was... i dunno... wasn't there a point to my mother comeing up? 'cause if there WAS i cannot FIND it.

I don't think my fingers have moved that fast: except for at work: in WEEKS. and it felt good. though, now, it's stopped. but it's a bit more than a trickle and maybe that's all i can wring out of this super-soaked sponge at the moment. maybe i need to be pushed. someone PUSH me. maybe THIS is why i need to be in school, something to PUSH against, something to FORCE me to write BS so there is also an outlet so i can get the NON BS out. i don't know.

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