Jan. 21st, 2016

Weerrrds

Jan. 21st, 2016 09:58 pm
karanguni: (Bebop SMOKING)
So, in an attempt to not be totally a shambles for [community profile] getyourwordsout, I'm keeping track of how much I'm writing drabbles in my RP as well. Which is a strange thing to do, since a) I've written in this format and with Elemental for so long it... barely even counts? It's as second-nature as breathing to me most days now, and having that other person around to both cheerlead and read in a zero-stress, not-here-to-impress mode is like having nuclear energy in an otherwise steam-powered era. That metaphor got away from me. Also b) since it's almost 100% original characters or iterations at this point, there's no fret. There's no plot, even though there is a lot of accidental plot. It's mindless self indulgence and

I realise that's utterly the point of something like this challenge: to general enough critical mass that I find myself at a point where I can declare the garbage heap a mountain of potential instead /grumbles

Still, it's hard – I've written most of my best fics when I was alone. And now I've got about... 0 personal time? I wake up, I do 15 minutes of stretches, I write in longhand, get breakfast, then go code for 8 hours. I get home, make dinner, optionally go to the gym, eat dinner, then watch tv with Boy for a few hours, bang out some RP on the side, and then fall asleep in a haze. Weekdays barely exist for me. Weekends are better, but a lot of it is recovering from the weekday.

Blathering )

Hurrah! You've made it through an entirely rambling post about mental health diagnositics, way too much personal information, and Aristotle. /o\ To think that post was supposed to be "I want more personal time in the evenings" and nothing more...

 

A universe of unmapped grief and love
And new master light is beyond
The pleiades and plow and southern stars.

O soaring
Icarus of outworld, burn bright
The traceries of known skymarks,
Slide the highway planets behind
Your clear waxed wings.

Go conquer the everywhere left
Beyond your sad confinement
In a predicted bonehouse,
Witch thrown riddle of flesh
And water.

O soar until nothing
remains but great glittering holes
In the black godspun shirt over your head.

- John Fairfax