Am easily falling into fluid sort of mood that involves an open mind--too open for my comfort--that will write sad, sweet things that have no meaning but to illustrate experiences conjectured but not yet tangible. Rather, things that will never happen, never be tangible because they happened to younger people. I used to imagine the same things as an eleven year old and I wrote better about them then than I do now. I've published some of it here, but I can never seem to capture the dark blue feeling of the time. I can never get it right! Gah.
These are the times when I listen to the mushy Evanescence songs and wish that I had taken dancing lessons once upon a time. But I don't really. Eww. I can barely walk in a straight line on a good day.
Also the times I wish I had taken piano lessons.
This is such a weird feeling. A good epic poem will dispel it, along with the admittance that I have no many non-ethereal objects around me; my lightbulb shines yellow, my headache is not at all romantic in any sense of the word, I have things like . . . toenails and eyelashes that get in my eyes sometimes. Stop thinking in such a nonsensical manner, my dear. No more tea. Maybe a nice glass of wine or . . . something . . . Back down to earth, no silliness about it, s.v.p.!
And I still wonder why I can't write the same thing and stick to it! If I were to practise that, would it become refined and tend to a good story?