I should be in bed by now. I know this. I'm even tired. But somehow, I just don't think it's going to happen. I'm... angsty. Emo, even. (The Goth is going to kill me...) Also, dreading tomorrow, which is the day that I hate above all other days: Tuesday. Nothing good can come of Tuesdays. Even Mondays don't have the sort of soul-sucking joylessness that Tuesdays can achieve. At least Mondays are beginnings. Something new, or at least different than the weekend. Tuesdays are just more of the same, and mine are crazy-busy besides.
I think I've got a letter to write. It might never be read by anybody, but I think it'd help me get some of the craziness out of my head. Putting words down on paper helps like that. It makes everything concrete, or really more like clay. Something I can work with my hands, pulling and molding and nudging into place instead of some weird ethereal vapor floating around in my skull, shapeless and swirling.
I think in another life I was the sort of person who worked with my hands. I think I made things--weavings, pottery, baskets, something. Useful things. Work that I could take pride in. There is something so satisfying about seeing something that you made being put to use, even to the point of becoming worn out. I think it means that your work was valuable. I don't have a lot of patience with purely decorative things. I want the things I own to serve a purpose. I think that's why I like knitting and pottery so much. The things I make can be used in real life. Eventually they'll get tattered or broken, but it will be after they have lived a fulfilling life serving the purposes for which they were created.
Ok. The crazy girl is waxing philosophical about inanimate objects now. Ya know, that's the problem with my brain. I am at my most creative when I am at my least motivated. When I'm sleeping I am an artistic genius. What do you call a writer who can only create in the throes of exhaustion?
Heh... normal, probably.