So I suppose it's as official as it ever will be. I moved into my flat today, no more freeloading, no more impositions -- all I neeed now is some sort of minor employent. My beer money will run out eventually, and when that happens I get grumpy.
I am begging to feel like a writer in earnest again, I am reading voraciously and producing at a new and unprecidented rate. I have started journaling properly, and am consistently suprised by the fluidity of thought achieved when I wrikte with pen and paper. There is something beautiful about a tangable page, feels closer to the source somehow. Soon I will begin a campain of letter writing to those I love all over the globe. Editing some old worls, at this rate I should have a few more short stories in a month -- this leaves me faced with publishing for the first time in years, the thought of seeing my work in print seems dazzling -- a culmination of sorts. I always wanted to be great (who doesn't), but just being published would be satisfaction enough. Makes me a bit giddy thinking about it.
In other news KellyMonster and I are going to Amsterdam next week to meet the enigmatic Scheisskopf -- I'm curious to see what's behind the massive and cryptic blogs. I'm going to be offline for a few says as I am headed to Devon to meet my estranged cousin for the first time. He seems so uttely English that I am terrified that I will be bored off my tits. Send me good energy or some such hippie bull-crap.
I am begging to feel like a writer in earnest again, I am reading voraciously and producing at a new and unprecidented rate. I have started journaling properly, and am consistently suprised by the fluidity of thought achieved when I wrikte with pen and paper. There is something beautiful about a tangable page, feels closer to the source somehow. Soon I will begin a campain of letter writing to those I love all over the globe. Editing some old worls, at this rate I should have a few more short stories in a month -- this leaves me faced with publishing for the first time in years, the thought of seeing my work in print seems dazzling -- a culmination of sorts. I always wanted to be great (who doesn't), but just being published would be satisfaction enough. Makes me a bit giddy thinking about it.
In other news KellyMonster and I are going to Amsterdam next week to meet the enigmatic Scheisskopf -- I'm curious to see what's behind the massive and cryptic blogs. I'm going to be offline for a few says as I am headed to Devon to meet my estranged cousin for the first time. He seems so uttely English that I am terrified that I will be bored off my tits. Send me good energy or some such hippie bull-crap.
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from the ages of 12-18 i was obsessed with travelling back in time and being a hippie. ken kesey and abbie hoffman were my heroes. it is funny because todays hippies annoy me so it is likely yesterdays would have as well.
when i dreamed of living the life i imagined, i realize now it seems to have involved me becoming an entirely different person. i imagined living in an apartment in new york city and having a bunch of cool friends, and making music or something. i wished i could wake up and not be so shy and antisocial. lately i have come to accept that is who i am and i should try to be happy within my own means, instead of the unattainable hopes of waking up another person.
Have something lovely to help you sleep.