Rumblings and Grumblings and Ramblings
Jun. 20th, 2003 12:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saucy_dryadIt's one of those nights. Mostly lovely, if truth be told, as the rain falls steadily and a soft, cool breeze sets the lace curtains to dancing. This is the kind of night I used to embrace. Of such a night I would pick up pen and paper and write for hours. At all times, it seemed I had stories milling about at the edges of my awareness and only needed a moment of repose to bring them forward, demanding to be told. I used to feel so alive, so creative, bright, smart, special. Now? I just feel... tired. Dull. Old.
What happened to me? I used to really like myself. I used to be proud to be me. I used to be so certain that I could achieve anything. I felt a bright magic threading its way through each moment. Now, I doubt my purpose, my very existence, on a daily - sometimes hourly - basis. I feel as if I've wasted so much time and I can never get that back. I want that spark, that certainty that I used to have. I want to stay up late because I simply can not bear not to finish a specific scene. In the past couple of days, I've reread a lot of what I wrote during that time. Most of it was utter dren - an ill-concealed longing for someone to care for me in a mimicry of the 'voices' of authors I admired. Some of it was decent. An even smaller portion was actually good. Doesn't matter, really. The point is I wrote. A lot. And I was happy.
ugh. I have no right to whinge so. I have a husband who (Goddess alone knows why!) adores me. He sees me as beautiful and talented and just can't understand why I don't see that same Kelly. I have a pretty amazing opportunity to do something I love in the summer, and during the rest of the year I get to work with books and/or dress up in pirate clothes and travel and sing. Despite my psoriasis, I am mostly healthy. I should be so very thankful - and sometimes I am. It's the other times that I just want to weep and wail and find a way to bring the magic back. I want to matter. I want to be special and talented and accomplished and find a way to make this world better.
It aches. My very heart aches. I want to weep. I hate this so.
What happened to me? I used to really like myself. I used to be proud to be me. I used to be so certain that I could achieve anything. I felt a bright magic threading its way through each moment. Now, I doubt my purpose, my very existence, on a daily - sometimes hourly - basis. I feel as if I've wasted so much time and I can never get that back. I want that spark, that certainty that I used to have. I want to stay up late because I simply can not bear not to finish a specific scene. In the past couple of days, I've reread a lot of what I wrote during that time. Most of it was utter dren - an ill-concealed longing for someone to care for me in a mimicry of the 'voices' of authors I admired. Some of it was decent. An even smaller portion was actually good. Doesn't matter, really. The point is I wrote. A lot. And I was happy.
ugh. I have no right to whinge so. I have a husband who (Goddess alone knows why!) adores me. He sees me as beautiful and talented and just can't understand why I don't see that same Kelly. I have a pretty amazing opportunity to do something I love in the summer, and during the rest of the year I get to work with books and/or dress up in pirate clothes and travel and sing. Despite my psoriasis, I am mostly healthy. I should be so very thankful - and sometimes I am. It's the other times that I just want to weep and wail and find a way to bring the magic back. I want to matter. I want to be special and talented and accomplished and find a way to make this world better.
It aches. My very heart aches. I want to weep. I hate this so.
