2004-03-24
A house with one gable
Cold clouds--clouds of gray--looming clouds of gray....articulate my mood through the cold wind. One thousand emotions floating in a glass vase of infinite texture, but one perpetual color...
I still struggle to find meaning within this...I have lost my impetus. To write is to entertain this somber mood of mine so that may continue to type in this atmosphere of infinite despair and romanticism--hopeless hardcore romantic, aspiring towards tormented genius description--all of that and more.
I want a house by the sea--my ultimate dream. No sunshine peaking through my curtains, no blissful song of birds, but not drab and depressing either. Mellow mix of solitude and company; a blanket of sauvignon clouds laying overhead--two shades of clouds in the sky: antique wine and that cotton white splotched with soft gray...the sky above my house. Antique brown sand--rough, with the miniature pebbles under your feet. Rhythmic waves--dark ocean, golden with the setting sun....a house with a gable. A hammock to write in, sleep in, contemplate in....
I still can�t write in my book, and I don�t know what�s wrong, must I feel every word before putting it down on paper? Must I visualize and feel my character�s plight? I need to write, but I can�t...I need my impetus...I need to be fifteen again.
Fifteen, and with energy and happiness to spare...