![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Drifting down old currents, June 6 2003
Jul. 6th, 2003 06:56 pmI'm having a powerful urge to write. No, that's not entirely true-- I'm having a powerful nostalgia that makes me want to create things that I've already lost.
So much of the writing in my life has been tinged with that feeling; as if by putting my thoughts to paper I can somehow affect the world around me, make it hurt less or dance more. Writing is an abjectly painful process for me because it takes me places that I've never gone and that I desperately want to go. Through my characters I can fall in love, live forever, fly, do magic, lie convincingly, or leave a situation that hurts me.
And do I learn something from the endeavor? Yes, often enough I do. Writing changes me when I do it right... but it doesn't change me that much. It's not invalid, it's just so damned SMALL in the scheme of things. Writing doesn't solve the problems-- it doesn't change my behaviors, let alone the stimuli the world presents me with.
Right now I have a dry, empty feeling in my chest that I've grown all too familiar with over the last few years. It always comes in proximity to good things; like a cloud looking for a silver lining. I remember it most vividly from two different places... waiting for Anne in her bedroom years ago, and sitting up late at night at home during the holidays. It's a wishing-without-moving feeling. I know I'm alone, and I can feel several clearly defined holes in my life, but I can't bring myself to just go someplace else, which is usually all I need.
I just had a wonderful weekend playing games and hanging out with old friends. But tomorrow I have to go back to a job that I think is very important but don't want to do and get yelled at for not doing it. And next week I resume taking classes that the University tells me are very important but that I'll probably hate. Recently I've been waking up in my bed from a sound sleep and good dreams to think about how much I wish there was someone-- anyone-- there next to me to share them with.
Summer seems to be the season for me to be childish and stupid. I can't wait for the leaves to start falling from the trees again and I can enjoy the quiet of winter.
So much of the writing in my life has been tinged with that feeling; as if by putting my thoughts to paper I can somehow affect the world around me, make it hurt less or dance more. Writing is an abjectly painful process for me because it takes me places that I've never gone and that I desperately want to go. Through my characters I can fall in love, live forever, fly, do magic, lie convincingly, or leave a situation that hurts me.
And do I learn something from the endeavor? Yes, often enough I do. Writing changes me when I do it right... but it doesn't change me that much. It's not invalid, it's just so damned SMALL in the scheme of things. Writing doesn't solve the problems-- it doesn't change my behaviors, let alone the stimuli the world presents me with.
Right now I have a dry, empty feeling in my chest that I've grown all too familiar with over the last few years. It always comes in proximity to good things; like a cloud looking for a silver lining. I remember it most vividly from two different places... waiting for Anne in her bedroom years ago, and sitting up late at night at home during the holidays. It's a wishing-without-moving feeling. I know I'm alone, and I can feel several clearly defined holes in my life, but I can't bring myself to just go someplace else, which is usually all I need.
I just had a wonderful weekend playing games and hanging out with old friends. But tomorrow I have to go back to a job that I think is very important but don't want to do and get yelled at for not doing it. And next week I resume taking classes that the University tells me are very important but that I'll probably hate. Recently I've been waking up in my bed from a sound sleep and good dreams to think about how much I wish there was someone-- anyone-- there next to me to share them with.
Summer seems to be the season for me to be childish and stupid. I can't wait for the leaves to start falling from the trees again and I can enjoy the quiet of winter.