I just. In a moment of fury, a stupor of stupidity, did away with months of writing. Got to remind myself never to read what I write if I always roll eye-balls and react violently towards any of it. I was talking to this girl, and she said something to me like - that - I didn't have the right to do that, to roll up on what I'd written. It was sweet of her to say that. Consequently, I fell in love with her.
The good part of it all is that I know the contents of what I'd been working on, so just need to sit down re-draft and write it all up again. And I love doing that. It makes me feel intelligent, important and sht (HAHA).
Its Summer. Things are drying up, in the evenings the trees start crackling. Tubes and pods start falling noisily onto the roof. Droplets of oily sap or something starts to sweat off flowers, you feel it falling on you when passing under trees. Every thing's dry and earthy. The wind sways its warmth around the place, it cuddles up on the kids, picking them up with its force, causing pink cheeks to tan. The evenings are longer, the nights are shorter. The mornings are 4AM bright with constellations likening a series of ear-studs, as usual the air is fresh and cool with the dew-ness. I find myself asleep in strange places. Mostly on the floor. I've been dreaming interesting dreams; Islands, lighthouses, vast seas, noisy ancient trade ships - real stuff - that finds me waking at the early AMs to think it all through... I stay up long enough so that I go back to bed and into the same early stages of sleep where the REM kicks up again - Dream Sleep.
I find myself spending time with a new circle of people. Chaos Artists and Mad writers all of us pitying each other // and it gets worse with us all reading Dostoevsky telling ourselves how "ridiculous" our stories are...
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