So mostly, I want to write, but every time I sit down it seems like all I want to do is type up Bright Eyes and Decemberists lyrics. I guess to set up an AIM away message? Because the inside of my heart is still shaped like it was when I was 15 and no amount of taxes paid or resumes refined or vegetables eaten can seem to convince it to budge. And seems worrisome at times. I'll run circles fretting about the relationship between past- and future-me. But thinking about the scenery in my life I realize that at 15 everything was about falling in love and writing crummy poems and doing my everyday job through a clenched-teeth grin, and at 22 everything is about falling in love and writing slightly better poems and doing my everyday job through a clenched-teeth grin until 11 at night. So really in a way I'm just sticking to my values. Only now I know what phonemes are and who Ariana Reines is and how to make an Old-Fashioned. So... progress. Funnily enough, my stress level regarding sonnets has remained approximately the same over this span of time, though those particular stress vectors have changed somewhat.
I am now resisting the urge to post blocks of Bright Eyes and/or Decemberists lyrics. Such things run rampant on the corpses of old online journals, and something about repeating the past &c.
A self-deprecating couplet on my work this month:
o how the banality of viscerality marries
unhappily the distract of abstraction
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