So here I sit at my hand made pine table, the waft of noodles swaying through from the kitchen, putting fingers to keyboard again in an effort to waylay the inevitable post-party haze that seems set on taking over my mind. It seems the times I feel most alive are at festivals. Around people. Electron'ing from being to being connecting with what I suppose we can call the universe. The backlash, however, the yin to my joyous yang, is in the aftermath. And I suppose it is all my fault. Basically, sitting at home on my own playing Hearthstone is not a fulfilling way to pass my ticking human hours. It eats away at my brain, luminescent screen sucking away at the bloody red life until all that is left is grey matter. Static. A hazy friction of scattered thoughts that can't connect to feeling. This is one of the ways out.
I thought last night, as I sat on the verandah couch, blowing water vapour across the crescent moon, that my writing in general is too self-indulgent. Understandably, given that these excerpts from my brain are for my reading only I suppose, but I feel as if there could be a greater cause than the literary vomit I induce (exduce?) onto these blank white spaces. Stories perhaps. But then I wonder - what is the point. An insidious notion that can drain the joy out of just about anything if applied generously and with maximum prejudice.
The world is a beautiful place, but you have to go out and find it.
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