You're quite a quiet domino, bury me now

I've spent the last thirty minutes entertaining the brilliant idea of going to LA for a weekend in February. It was mad, and spur of the moment, and it was beautiful. Really, truly, beautiful...if completely impractical and impossible to make work. I swear I got an adrenaline rush just plotting it all out. Damn reality. What does Adler say? To dreamers, reality is unreal? Damn straight (yes, I believe I have taken it completely out of context but hey, I'm a BAComm graduate, I make my own damn context).

Sigh.

Nothing ever happens in this country. We always have to cling to the tiniest things, the bands who tour here after years of waiting, the miniscule little attendances that are extended over oceans. I realise we're quite a far way off, but it's not like it's hard to travel. No one is asking anyone to take a three month cruise to get here. Indulge us!

***

"Dance with me," breathed the shadows, wrapping tendrils around our limbs. We sway on the strings of our puppet masters design, brranches weathering a storm as walls close in around us.
“Smile for me," whispered the twilight, ghosting a touch over cheeks. The night folds around us, stealing breath and stunting speech.
"Give in to me," called the darkness, gentle caress from lovers' lips, "Let me slow dance inside your nightmares, and never stop to think."
Wrapped in the arms of the only thing we understand, the path to our own hearts, the constant ebb and flow of epiphanies that linger on the edge of tongues. To breathe and see nothing but a dark night, and a spotlight on our slow movements as we rhythmically sway to the inner beat of a macabre mind, the light illuminates only our thoughts. Dressed in shadows we dance the night away, for in single moments we are more real before we cease to exist.

***

In one of those strange but true moments, I have had the most bizarre song stuck in my head today. Private Emotion by Ricky Martin. This song was out when I was 12 or something, and while it was a single, I don't think it was ever especially successful. Where did it come from and why is it infesting my brain? Mysteries of the universe.

I’ve decided that I am going to be more pro-active this year. Volunteer at the Writers Festival, that sort of thing. I’ve decided that maybe it’s time to throw myself into this wholeheartedly. I’ve never really done that before, I’ve never really trusted myself with this. But if I don’t back myself as a writer, no one else will. I need to harden myself to disappointment, that not everyone will like what I do, that I will get rejected again and again, but if I believe in my work, if I sell it, and if I just stick with it – something might come of it. I definitely have a greater chance than sitting at home and being too scared to do anything about it. I’ve never really seen myself as a writer, as a profession I mean, but maybe it’s time I start looking at it in the right light as opposed to just shrugging it off and skirting around aimlessly. I have to commit to this, instead of looking at it as something I do simply because I always have and because I’m good at it, because I feel I can’t do anything else. I have another three years of tertiary education ahead of me, I will be picking up tricks of the trade from people who have been there, people who (despite my reservations) appear to know what they’re doing. I should take advantage of these things. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Besides, as the flair says, a professional writer is an amateur writer who didn’t quit. I need to be passionate about this for once. I mean, hell, maybe it’s time I started believing in myself.

Easier said than done though, if I remember correctly from past experience.

Oh, there is a Shakespeare festival! Who wants to go see Macbeth with me?

Music: I am trying to break your heart - Wilco
Mood: Only wishful thinking