Lately things have been okay. I still want the whole human race to vaporize. Then again, when don't I? Existance has gotten about as normal as it will ever be.
I feel empty. As if there is no blood flowing through these veins. Hollow of thought and feeling. There is no reason I should feel like this. At least no reason that anyone but myself would really understand.
My writing has suffered. Horribly suffered. Lack of emotion doesn't create the best work. There is no passion in the words. Untuned and tired. Disjointed. No flow.
I think the reason is that I've been extroverted lately. Abandoning my inner musing for outward expression. Displaying emotions that I once just left lie in the dust of my thoughts.
Part of this emotion has been directed to friend of mine asked for my portfolio over the break. Which starts tomorrow. There just doesn't seem to be anything in there that would be worthy of anyone, outside of myself, to see. My manuscript is due at the publishers for prelims by January. The pages just seem to be filler. No content. Nothing. They might as well be blank. They would say more like that than they do as they are.
Hollow. Damn it. Why do I feel so hollow?
I know, this isn't like me. I usually move through the entries with a dischordant grace. Faltering, yet flowing. These tangents are annoying me.
Today's Preferred Torture Method: Pages that won't stop staring into my soul. They know there is nothing, why must they continue to look?
The Other Voices in My Head: Dune-Frank Herbert
Sounds Bite: Kashmir- Jimmy Page