in writing, I purge

Not many people inspire me to write. The events in my life and all that is happening around me do though. Not the great authors, Dickens, Eliot, Bronte, that I am reading; not the famous movie critiques like Owen Gleiberman, Whang Yee Ling, or Peter Travers. Its people I know that writes well that inspires me to write. Jack always inspires me to create something that is beautifully my own, always with a critical eye and never settle for second best. And recently, reading a junior's blog has spurred my interest in writing again. If at 17 he is able to write effortlessly and fluidly, it really puts me to shame.

and that's all i seem to be feeling these days, the constant nagging feeling that i am inapt and incapable of anything remotely great. My life is in shambles, really, and when i think of the sum of all that is wrong in my life, i just feel like giving up entirely, run away to some faraway place free from all of this and be by myself.

There's no sympathy out there it seems.

But on good days, the music will heal the soul. the only crying i'm doin now is from watching tv. through that, i live vicariously; rejoice, cry, laugh, and get excited, i do them all in solitude.




"I was. I lost. I sang. I knew. I ever hope for that strange autumn light again with the good dog again with the thousands of years. Scrap of [me] off Eurydice torn. Her number I lost her lark I shot and she a pulse. History never looks so possible as when leaving a heart spilt among the stones crying Don’t read it again it was perfect"
- Anne Carson