My head seems to have come unscrewed and everything inside has come undone.
This isn't necessarily a bad thing, it's just the fact that my brain has decided to open up this strange portal that is usually shut tight.
Sitting around the table with Malcolm last night, sharing things we've written over the years, I realized I miss having writing friends. I'd be a horrible writing friend though as I just don't write anything real or worthwhile these days, it's all chronicle so I don't forget. Must remember this cupcake. Must remember this quote, this kiss, this day.
It feels so static. Less art, less spontaneous combustion. I know nothing about science. I know everything about routine.
Friday night I brought over piles of paper to Craft Night, things I had buried, stories and plays and poems about people I don't remember anymore. I used to write fiction. I don't know when I stopped, but I sorta miss it.
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