| hello, it's me again
i don't really write too much anymore. more action, less words.
but i want to one day.
till then - misrule has some of my words, and little of the soul...
and yet sometimes i feel this urge to write. write like i used to, without the clean logical line of self-justification, but full of witches and wicked imagery and suggestive but never utterly vulgar lines. rich and unfettered description. write with feeling. is that so much to ask for?
sometimes i don't know what to do at all.
sometimes i think too much. sometimes i don't think at all. sometimes, it is better to simply sleep.
must i be oblique - can i be direct? is wanting to know what makes someone tick liking someone? why isn't there a word that bridges that chasm between "like" and "love", where the latter is so deep and committed while the former is fickle and wavery?
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| they articulate things better than i can
She misses him intensely; or rather, she misses, not him, but the sensations he used to be able to arouse in her. The light has gone out of him and now she can see him clearly. She finds this objectivity of hers, this clarity, almost more depressing than she can bear, not because there is anything hideous or repellant about this man but because he has now returned to the ordinary level, the level of things she can see, in all their amazing and complex particularity, but cannot touch.
- Margaret Atwood, The Sunrise, (from Bluebeard's Egg and Other Stories)
I thought, as I read this bitterly succulent paragraph, replace Yvonne with the I.
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