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I watched a bit more of the Castlevania: Lament of Innocence walkthrough. The fight mechanics are still hideously monotonous, but the Medusa boss fight was entertaining, and I loved the music for the Thunder Elemental miniboss battle.
I pulled myself out of the creative doldrums and resumed work on Sprache XIX, and that has lifted my spirits. Writing always does, and I should know better than to neglect in a fit of useless melancholy. The very act of writing, of imagining and translating that imagination into keystrokes, is therapeutic. It distracts me from the fears that constantly gnaw at the base of my brain and gives voice to the demons that refuse to be exorcised. I feel clean after I write, relieved, as if I have purged something noxious and terrible. The dread and the loneliness always return, but until they do, I am light-hearted and can let myself believe in happily ever after. People need the hope of one-in-a-million chances and happily ever afters. It gets them out of bed in the morning when all else fails, and it's the spoon that never tarnishes and slips from your hand. Humans are a doggedly hopeful lot; we even hope for life after death, for another ride on life's carousel.
I hope when I write. I hope to taste of love and desire and loyalty. I hope for chance encounters that will never happen. I hope to touch someone's life deeply and leave a positive mark after I'm gone. I hope to be somewhere other than where I am, and for someone to miss me when I'm gone.
Writing loosens my tongue and lets me share feelings and dreams I would otherwise bury for fear of mockery and petty cruelty and simple-minded hatred. It keeps my own bitterness and hatred in check, robs them of their power and allows me to move on and forward. It does not banish my wounds, but it keeps me from dwelling on them, and such a gift is crucial for someone who must necessarily fixate and obsess just to accomplish the most mundane tasks, like peeing and managing my meager finances.
Writing is the safety valve that the government can't legislate away, and that an overweening public can't wrest from me "for my own good." Not even my mother, hateful harridan that she is, can steal it from me. If I were banished to a desert isle, I would ask for a stick with which to write in the sand, and if the waves washed my words away, then I would write them anew, unceasing and intransigent. The ocean would win in the end because it is eternal and I am not, but its victory would come only when the stick fell from my hands and the dust of my bones mingled with the sea foam.
I have long thought that writers die only when they have no more stories to tell, and though my cage is small, my hope runs deep and long.
I pulled myself out of the creative doldrums and resumed work on Sprache XIX, and that has lifted my spirits. Writing always does, and I should know better than to neglect in a fit of useless melancholy. The very act of writing, of imagining and translating that imagination into keystrokes, is therapeutic. It distracts me from the fears that constantly gnaw at the base of my brain and gives voice to the demons that refuse to be exorcised. I feel clean after I write, relieved, as if I have purged something noxious and terrible. The dread and the loneliness always return, but until they do, I am light-hearted and can let myself believe in happily ever after. People need the hope of one-in-a-million chances and happily ever afters. It gets them out of bed in the morning when all else fails, and it's the spoon that never tarnishes and slips from your hand. Humans are a doggedly hopeful lot; we even hope for life after death, for another ride on life's carousel.
I hope when I write. I hope to taste of love and desire and loyalty. I hope for chance encounters that will never happen. I hope to touch someone's life deeply and leave a positive mark after I'm gone. I hope to be somewhere other than where I am, and for someone to miss me when I'm gone.
Writing loosens my tongue and lets me share feelings and dreams I would otherwise bury for fear of mockery and petty cruelty and simple-minded hatred. It keeps my own bitterness and hatred in check, robs them of their power and allows me to move on and forward. It does not banish my wounds, but it keeps me from dwelling on them, and such a gift is crucial for someone who must necessarily fixate and obsess just to accomplish the most mundane tasks, like peeing and managing my meager finances.
Writing is the safety valve that the government can't legislate away, and that an overweening public can't wrest from me "for my own good." Not even my mother, hateful harridan that she is, can steal it from me. If I were banished to a desert isle, I would ask for a stick with which to write in the sand, and if the waves washed my words away, then I would write them anew, unceasing and intransigent. The ocean would win in the end because it is eternal and I am not, but its victory would come only when the stick fell from my hands and the dust of my bones mingled with the sea foam.
I have long thought that writers die only when they have no more stories to tell, and though my cage is small, my hope runs deep and long.
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