Restauran-Touring

I fear that I am addicted to stories.

No, it is not just a mere unconfirmed possibility. It's a fact.

I think I've been hyper-patient lately, if that is even a condition. It's as though I'm waiting around for something to happen instead of doing something proactive out of fear that the minute I look away the thing I was waiting for will occur and I'd have missed it or caught off guard.

I'm sure there's an -itis or -phobia that could be associated with that, but what its name is doesn't really concern me right now.

I find it troublesome recently that I've discovered that I much more enjoy writing for Young-Adult than I do straight up Adult general fiction.

There's just a certain level of silliness that you can get away with in Y-A that would kill the mood in Adult. And I won't be a twat and say what I'm writing "wasn't written with a specific audience in mind" because that would be juvenile. Unless I was truly that wishy-washy and wanted to confuse a bunch of people. I'm sure my editor would just LOVE that.

Which isn't to say that I dislike Adult general fiction. The kind of silliness you can get away with there, though, is a very tricky thing. Spend so many pages or chapters trying to cultivate a mood and it can come all crashing down with a misplaced cream pie or wedgie.

"You know what your problem is, kid?"

What's that?

"Priorities. Your priorities are messed up."

Probably.

"'Probably' nothing! It's true. Get sorted!"

We'll see.

I'm feeling genuinely sick of passively observing and reporting things.

I want to create something. Something new.

It's a frequent frustration. Having admitted that, though, brings me no closer to achieving what I want.

I've a troublesome number of hoops to jump through before being in a position that will satisfy this longing. And I fear that I find no virtue in the hoops, though they are very, very necessary. Bah. I feel as though I've grown out of the classroom years ago. But that's probably just stupid arrogance talking.

Maybe love doesn't have to make sense. It just has to be honest.

I find it bothersome when I hear from someone who held the pursuit of art in high regard give it up. Often it is out of fear of not succeeding, or the realisation that they will not go as far as they had liked before. Whether or not it is true, I still find it a sad waste--but perhaps that is putting it too strongly.

That said, I will not relinquish my ambition. Whether or not I succeed or fail, I choose to pursue it out of principle, for I would not be honest with myself were I to give up--no matter how I rationalise.

Can you call it "strength" to be so damnedly stubborn? I wouldn't.

Speaking of semantics, I wonder if hope and delusion are opposite sides of the same coin.

I don't know what would make me happy.

Well, that's not true.

To amend that: I don't know what would--within the confines of reason--make me happy.

Ah, I have so many bittersweet memories to retreat to. Memories of smells and warmth and of sensations long past. Sometimes they're very difficult to recall, but I remember them in the end. They help. They heal. They hurt.

Ha. This is starting to sound like it belongs in a certain other journal.

I've been feeling very old lately. As though my time has already passed. In a way I suppose that is true.

I admit that I am lonely. But there's no helping that.

I can also acknowledge that things can always be worse. But that gives me no comfort.

What's a life with nothing to look forward to? What's a life when you've already lived the best days of your life? What is a life without hope? Or friends? Or warm comforts? I'm left with naught but a gnawing hunger. And a bitter chill. Sometimes my nights are dreamless and without rest.

You are a weak, pathetic man, Mr. Gaerlan.

"What matters is what you leave behind."

I wonder.

As I find myself with less and less time and having to constantly plan and budget what I have left, I find it ever more important that I record what is going on at this exact moment.

That was a mouthful. And it is indicative of where I am with my ability to communicate through typed words at the moment--that is to say, bad. All the more reason for me to try get my thoughts out at every opportunity. I need to get my voice back.

Everything has been at a frenzied, hurried pace recently. Everything feels as though it's been done on reflex, though. There's a wide gulf between my mind and my body and they seem to be working independently at times.

It's very troublesome.

I've some things not related to work (which consumes a very large amount of my time) on my plate that I wish to record.

I want to remember. I want something that will remind me.