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ravenBored.
It's twenty past ten in the morning and I'm already bored. I've been awake for an hour, which I believe is quite good for me. I need to revise a little - but I want to go out, so sue me. I really don't know whether to actually tell my mother I'm going, or what -damn my compulsive truth-telling I think I'll lie.
I feel like eating pop tarts - we do have some, but that's the only thing I feel - hungry. Hungry, and displaced, but that's nothing new. I mean, I don't feel anything, and it bothers me. I didn't put any music on until about five minutes ago. There's something uncharacteristic.
That word - "uncharacterstic" - always seems to remind me of Pedar's sense of humour. I don't know what we were talking about, but I seem to remember saying, "Why, were you going to say that was uncharacteristic of me?"
He didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then - "Would I do that?"
I think he might have been watching the Stargate ep Menace with me. Just a thought.
Anyway, I think it's not dififcult to glean from this hotchpotch of randomness that I have writers' block. I had a mild case of it last week, but ever since Friday, I haven't written a line. This isn't in itself so unusual - I don't always get the time to write - but what is strange is the fact I haven't been thinking about it. Usually it's close to the surface constantly, like a submerged layer just beneath my consciousness of what's going on around me - for example, if I'm idly thinking that's it's raining and I need to borrow Becca's umbrella, there's another layer underneath thinking about the details of the rain, the way it drips into my eyes and hair, the way it looks against a sky, the effect the umbrella has on it (none at all) and why it's the only thing people ever unite on - how horrible British weather is.
But now I have the feeling I have only one layer of thoughts. The depth is gone.
It's twenty past ten in the morning and I'm already bored. I've been awake for an hour, which I believe is quite good for me. I need to revise a little - but I want to go out, so sue me. I really don't know whether to actually tell my mother I'm going, or what -
I feel like eating pop tarts - we do have some, but that's the only thing I feel - hungry. Hungry, and displaced, but that's nothing new. I mean, I don't feel anything, and it bothers me. I didn't put any music on until about five minutes ago. There's something uncharacteristic.
That word - "uncharacterstic" - always seems to remind me of Pedar's sense of humour. I don't know what we were talking about, but I seem to remember saying, "Why, were you going to say that was uncharacteristic of me?"
He didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then - "Would I do that?"
I think he might have been watching the Stargate ep Menace with me. Just a thought.
Anyway, I think it's not dififcult to glean from this hotchpotch of randomness that I have writers' block. I had a mild case of it last week, but ever since Friday, I haven't written a line. This isn't in itself so unusual - I don't always get the time to write - but what is strange is the fact I haven't been thinking about it. Usually it's close to the surface constantly, like a submerged layer just beneath my consciousness of what's going on around me - for example, if I'm idly thinking that's it's raining and I need to borrow Becca's umbrella, there's another layer underneath thinking about the details of the rain, the way it drips into my eyes and hair, the way it looks against a sky, the effect the umbrella has on it (none at all) and why it's the only thing people ever unite on - how horrible British weather is.
But now I have the feeling I have only one layer of thoughts. The depth is gone.
