I was pleasantly surprised; Not all of the stuff on here is utter drivel! And in addition to that, I've been churning out schlock fairly consistently of late, because I have to for a class here. So I won't be updating regularly, but every now and then I will post a piece from my writing class, or a failed idea with some interesting concepts, political manifestos, etc.
Anyway, here's a mood piece I did last week. I was feeling hyper, and couldn't concentrate enough to actually produce something, so I wrote instead:
Spring Fever
2/19/11
Spring is in the air, and my bones are twisting out of their shells. I'm trying to write this all down before I go stir crazy and start punching things, but I'm not optimistic. Spring fever is a gloriously frustrating sensation; it's typified by a burning desire to tear down empires and raise galaxies, but it's accompanied by such a frenetic caffeinated jittering that you can't actually produce much of anything other than incoherent shouting.
I think it's best at night: you get that achy bittersweet remembrance of childhood, unmarred by any recollection of what your childhood was really like. It's a blessing, the night air. It's intoxicating like the sweetest incense, and fleeting like unfaithful love. It makes you remember the smell of baking dust, of roads too hot to walk on in bare feet (but of course you went barefoot anyway, and you tried to find the tarry patches of road because somehow the gooey, barely contained ooze felt cooler than the concrete). It makes you want to run forever, just pick a road and start running until you hit ocean and towering whitecaps, throwing dreams into the sunlit, sea filled air. And you know they're lying, but your bones tell you that when you see the ocean coming, you’re going to go in swimming, and go down fighting.
It makes you want to drink water from strange and dangerous places; wells, streams, hoses if you're lacking in resources. You want to run the through the grass, and maybe wrestle in it too. You want to see people have expressions that shows the kind of wonder that's too happy to stay but still feels strangely, peculiarly right. You want love; fleeting, ethereal, springtime love that's doomed to die by summer but leave you with a bittersweet tang of unused potential.
You want to grow, and die, and live forever. And you know it's a beautiful lie, but you also know, deep down, that this time, this summer, you're going to live forever.
