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Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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To the stars

It's officially winter

I'm completely frozen. I mean, No Cal is pretty tame compared to other, more northerly places, but it ain't warm. Especially when your house heat is on temporary lockdown until we can guarantee that it's not spilling carbon monoxide into our dreamy little sleeping heads. I'm gonna curl up under a blanket and play some Dirge of Cerberus, to satisfy my urge to shoot things in an aesthetically pleasing manner. But I thought I'd check in first.

Nanowrimo effort is at 10K words; I'll kick it up to 12.5 k in the next couple days, so I can say I made it a quarter of the way through before calling it a bust. Considering how strapped for time I've been, I'm actually pretty happy with that. I knew going in that there was no way I'd finish without killing off all social contact, and coming straight home from 10-12 (or 14) hour workdays to immediately write before falling unconscious. And I didn't do that, and it's okay. Baby steps. I'm going to keep chipping away at it anyway, even though I'm really perplexed at how it's turning out. I don't know if it's readable, but I'm having fun.

It's a matter of killing out my own personal censor. I was chilling with Net the other day and we got to talking about A Beautiful Mind, and how terribly it creeps me out, that disparity of perception that is so integral to the story. I'm not (clinically) crazy, nor would I want to be. But I find that I identify extremely strongly with the main character's dilemmas. I am quite capable of falling into a neurotic fugue where I hyperobssess about something (a tummyache, a rendezvous, my calorie intake, a written piece I'm working on) to the point that it feels crystal-clear when I'm sunk into it, but then looking back on those moments later in time, I realize how far the objectivity I held so dear during my Philosophy studies had fallen away. That moment where they find his hidden hut in the woods, walls covered in randomly cut-out pieces of media and paper, from months of "decrypting secret messages"... that was scarier to me than any of the horror movies I've ever seen. I often feel that all the words I string together are just some version of that kind of crazy, a collage of impressions and stretched metaphors and tenuous connections that I can't stop piecing together, but will fall to ash if the light of day exposes them for the nonsense that they are.

Melodrama. ^_^ Don't worry, I ain't fishing for compliments and I will keep churning the words out. At the end of the day, I guess I'd rather be buried with a heap of crazy to remember me by, than nothing at all. I'm just explaining to you about the fears that crouch at the edge of my bed in the middle of the night. I wouldn't trade them... they're part of me... but they make it hard to get out of bed some days.

I have to give someone a talking-to (or email) about being on time to work tomorrow. And I might have to interview somebody for a position, too. It's... it feels really weird, I don't mind telling you. There is some part of me that sees those types of tasks as "grown-up" or "professional," and myself as "not." I don't know why. In part, I feel weird about being asked to, in a real way, "pass judgment" on anyone. These are perfectly normal everyday things, but I don't feel I have the right.

I feel like telling everyone to jump off a bridge. And showing up to join them, if they listen.

I feel like going to sleep for a hundred years, and telling the first person to wake me up that I need another ten.

I feel like changing my name, my face, my voice, just so I can do the same things I always do, but differently.

I feel alive in the moment, and dead in the womb.

I feel like I'm dumb, but too smart to notice.

I want to work in one of these buildings, so I can flee it to live in the woods.

I feel antigravity, but the world keeps getting stuck to my feet.

You know what I mean?

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scribbling cryptically...

Yay for collective neurosis!!

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