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Welcome to a world of poetry and soliloquoy-

A world of dogmatic digressions and serious exhortations on frivolity and grandeur.

My brain is like a circus. These are chronicles of the circus-freaks and sideshows and mysterious wonders which I carry with me on a daily basis.

I am, therefore I write.

I write, therefore I arrive.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Lost In Translation

Tuesday afternoon.  Been sick for a week now.  What started off as a fever, morphed into an extremely sniffly nose and sore throat, and has now graduated to an extreme smokers' cough and a crackly, manly, broken voice.

I have taken theraflu, mucinex, dayquil and robitussin and nothing really seems to be working.  I'm convinced I'm dying of pneumonia.  It's okay, though.  Death by illness definitely enhances my role as an author; I only regret that I haven't published anything yet.  I don't have much finished to publish posthumously, either.  I thought I had finished my fairytale back in December, only to realize I was far from finishing and in fact discovered I need to expand, expand, expand the entire story into a small book.  Joy and rapture.

I haven't worked on Tulips since this past summer.  I thought I would get lots of time to focus and work on it while I'm here, but it's been a month already and I haven't looked at it once.  She's been playing at the back of my mind for the past two weeks, however, and so I know I'll be picking the manuscript up again, soon.  I know it sounds terribly macabre, but I can't help feel she's my greatest life's work, and that no matter what I do after, I'll never be able to top her. Even though I haven't come close to finishing her yet, she still haunts my every thought. She hangs over me like a giant scarlet letter, invisible to everyone but me. I can't escape her.  Fiction is a tricky business, full of deceit and coldhearted misery. She will churn, and burn and cast me out a thousand times over and over again, and yet I crawl back to her every day. Moments seem like years and every second of my life is spent in slavery to her mastery. God, how I love her, and also, how I deeply burn with hatred for her.

This is the road I have chosen.

You may begin to doubt my sanity now.

I've given up on my sanity.  It's quite nice, really.  Let the multiple personalities take root.

I'm off for a walk, now.  The sky has turned grey, and I would put money down on the fact that the ocean has turned from calm to threatening. This is the absolute best time to seek inspiration.

Wish me luck.






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