Pissed

[smokingboot]

I could be at an LRP event. With my love. And fantastic chums. On a night that, yet again, pulls me into its beauty. God I am so lucky. And yet I chose to stay behind to work on my project.

By all that's sacred, it's crap.

No really, modesty's not my style. I know rubbish when I read it. My head would be full of despair if it wasn't for some new world vineyard ready to rescue the ever cheap. I don't want to believe this. It's crap! Real noonad (the writing, not the wine which is rather mmmwah:-*) I can't even feel proper despair about it on account of the evening being so beautiful. Half moon: a strange and lovely time. But what about my work?

I am now remembering absurd things I should have written long ago. Anything will move me away from the work in hand. I am so lazy and it's no bloody good!

Now I am remembering a character I should have written for a freeform I planned: Somerled, prince of the isles. I move further on in my head, Scotland a mere tread from India: What? why am I thinking of that? Because even now the birds are barely convinced by the falling dusk and singing like the mad clueless bastards they are. And why twilit bird song should make me think of that land I don't know, nor why Somerled should suddenly appear before me full fleshed and ready to be played. He has more reasons than I do, and he's mere imagination!

Despite some protest, I am grateful this daftness is in my mind and heart. I resist so much when writing becomes duty.

I have read Ashenkat's beautifully constructed argument about LJ, what it means,the contract between reader and writer. I cannot, however, apply it to those around me. Read my words and please me, ride on and please me. As we wish. We're both bondless here, you and I.

Now I really must concentrate.

And try to be less smashed.