Existential

I am now as old as I've always felt, and yet I am sad for I will never be this young again.

My life has to mean more from this point on. No more wasted years.

On Dem Writin'Z0rs

I haven't been writing.

I don't really mind too much. I know it would be great to be writing but the trick, I've learned, is to not to stress too much about it when you're not doing it. That just turns the writing into work, and I've been there.

On the other hand, I really should be writing. Though I appear to be wrestling with all kinds of dilemmas right now.

My novel has finally moved into phase 3, where my characters should be flying like an arrow to defeat the enemy and return their companion. I think. There's a little thing with the source that I may have to deal with/fudge, but really it's so slipshod right now that everything will probably be dealt with in editing.

And that's part of the problem. I fired up my old story (working title: The Guardian) and was reading through it a little and was astounded at the sheer amount of life I had thrown into that story. It's bursting at the seams and jumping off the page, and I can't help comparing it to Elemental.

Which is pretty sad and flat, to be perfectly honest.

I don't know what I did, actually. I don't know how I could have changed so much that I don't project that life into my story. The Guardian had it almost by default, feeding off itself and pure energy to maintain that gold. Elemental on the other hand, seems to want to put its back up while I push and push and push. And it's not fun, really. It's slow and pitiful.

And now I'm wondering if I really should be writing it at all. Maybe my first, and beloved, should have come first.

It bleeds beauty. How can I be so blind in my life?

Addendum and Plastic!

Well, this has been a bit of a turbulent year. Guess I don't really like being the bad guy and leaving my friends in bad situations.

That last post got a little away from me. But sometimes...you just have to write the feeling down, you know?

Anyway, as a sort of compensation for my rampant emotionality, I'll share the infamous "plastics" scene from my beloved first story (the one that I dropped because it would take ages to finish).

Ffian turned and pulled her quilt up higher, smelling the sweet smell of dew on grass. She sneezed and sat up suddenly, casting about her. This wasn’t home or her Aunt’s house, she remembered, yawning widely. Sizha’s horse stood grazing to one side of the clearing, but Sizha was not in sight. Ffian relaxed and examined her surroundings; if the horse was here then Sizha was coming back.

She was in a clearing ringed by large trunked trees, creating a low canopy a dozen metres above. There was a trickling stream nearby, refracting the sunlight in dancing crystalline patterns and to one side of the low-burning fire, there was a hollowed out stump with a tarp over it.

Ffian stood and stretched, yawning again, then stumped over to the tree trunk and lifted the tarpaulin slightly. Dry firewood was stacked there with a small wrapped bundle lying on it. Ffian unwrapped the oily cloth and wasn’t very surprised to see a small hatchet, its head scratched and pitted, but the edge honed to a shine. She carefully rewrapped the hatchet and secured the tarpaulin, before looking around for something else to pique her curiosity.

A pressing need burned at her lower belly, and Ffian cast about looking for what she knew wasn’t there. Thankfully, her parents had been avid campers and almost every summer since she could remember they had enjoyed the great outdoors for weeks at a time. A thought crossed her mind as she sought a place to relieve herself, perhaps why they had loved the outdoors, the forests and nature so much was because they had come from a place like this. Perhaps this was the place they had come from. The thought gave her hope and she was smiling by the time she returned to the camp.

Sizha was re-wrapping her wet hair into its braid; her face had a look of intense concentration, the lips pulled up on one side as she wrapped a leather strip around it.

Ffian laughed at that face and Sizha looked up at her, her face going cross. “Here, I’ll help you.” Ffian offered, tying the leather strip while Sizha held the braid firmly in a fist. “There, all done.” Ffian said, her hands roving lightly over the twined hair. It was hard and soft, flexible like rope and yet quite strong. Ffian winced at the thought of it being pulled though.

Sizha’s eyes slid over Ffian’s clothes and her eyes turned thoughtful. “What’s this?” She asked, poking at the blazer’s buttons.

“It’s a button.” Ffian said, a little confused since she thought they had them here.

“I know it’s a button!” Sizha said, clapping Ffian’s blazer with her hand. “What is it made out of?” She emphasized, fingering the material.

“Oh, sorry.” Ffian apologised. “It’s plastic.” At Sizha’s blank look, Ffian elaborated. “You have wood and stone, then metal, and then you have plastic.” She screwed up her face trying to make a comparison. “You know how you have sand, and then it can be melted to make glass?”

“Yes.” Sizha nodded, tapping the button with a fingernail.

“Well, plastic is a bit like that – it’s not natural, you have to make it. But it can be hard or soft, depending on how they make it and what they use, so it’s replaced a lot of things in our society – because metal is precious and wood burns, we use plastic to make many things.” Ffian tried to make the explanation as simplistic as possible.

“So…” Sizha began, her face growing thoughtful, “Can you make swords out of it? Can you make houses?” She asked.

“No. Well, no we don’t usually make swords out of it, metal is still better for that. But we can make houses out of it, although we still mostly use bricks and wood.” Ffian said.

“So what use is it then?” Sizha asked, contemptuously. “Why is this better than a wooden button I could get anywhere?”

“There are many people on my world. There would be no trees left if we all used wood instead.” Ffian rebutted. “And if I took this button off and left it in a drawer and came back in ten years, it’d be exactly the same. It’s cheap, it’s easy to make and it lasts, without making us lose all our forests.” She stated a little defensively.

“So there are lots of trees on your world – on Titan?” Sizha asked.

Ffian’s face fell. “No…we…we use too many trees each year, and replace them with less. That’s why our world is changing; they call it climate change or global warming. At least, that’s what my teachers always say.” Ffian said, toeing the ground with her shoe.

“I see.” Sizha said, sympathetically patting Ffian’s hand. “So how do you make this…this plastic?” She asked.

“I don’t know.” Ffian answered, helplessly. “It’s made in factories with big machines and things…” She trailed off.

Sizha looked at Ffian curiously, but let it drop. “I understand. Anyway,” she said, standing “I was going to say we need to get you some different clothes if you don’t want to stick out here. We’re nearing Cerrekus and...”

Tearstained Dreams

It seems like things are going my way.

With a little temporary work to spur my efforts in december and focus my mind on the completion of my novel in november, it would seem I have nowhere to go but up. I'm even being fairly social recently, attending a few events here and there and talking to new people. I'm daring to hope that I can actually complete this novel, and start on my true profession. What I've been waiting for all this time, I'm sure. Yeah, right.

I was completely unprepared for how I feel right now.

I'm not really a depressive person. I can be harsh, cynical, and have despised myself in the past. But that's been long in the past. And I can't really lay this feeling at any kind of door but my own.

But this deep sadness fills my soul like nothing else. It's the sound of a broken heart in the dark. It's the sound of the heart of this betrayer shattering over and over again.

I can't believe I won't be there for her. I can't believe I won't be able to give her everything.

This was a life decision, and I still hope to the heavens it was the right one. It wasn't working, I couldn't cope and we weren't right for each other. I'm sure of it.

But that doesn't mean I don't love her. Or rather, didn't.

I'm a broken person, I think. For my entire life I've believed in a particular type of love, and I still do, I believe in that connection, that belonging, that desire. That electric thrill. Indeed, I do sometimes feel that thrill with certain people and all they need to do is step into the room. Sometimes I realise I haven't even seen them yet. Almost like there was a potential, somehow woven into destiny, that I don't even understand but against all odds can feel.

But...I think I might be the wrong person. If there's someone pulling strings up there, well you're wrong! I don't want to be the one breaking hearts. I'm not made to do harm, it's not something I love. And doing it to those in my heart is like ripping my soul to pieces.

If I have to, I will defy you, and live life alone. Because I won't settle for anything less, at all, but I won't go on hurting the people I care about.

This one was enough.