it's official, i'm in love again. different this time. less longing, more satisfaction. less need more comfortable. i'm going to give it a go here at writing again, more and more and frankly it scares the shit out of me since i haven't written anything good in a very long time. no audience, no motivation, no point.

but that's changing as my clock is ticking - no not biology but not entirely different. ironically i am effectively sniping the wires of my biological clock this month and i couldn't be happier about it. i never wanted kids, i revisited the idea to make sure and now it stands that i still don't. but the urge to create is strong and instead it's my novel clock that's ticking. must write something, must do it soon before all of my youthful experiences and opportunities have passed me by. it's true that there are plenty of things old people can write about for old people to read about but given my rate of growth i'll be virtually ancient by the time i'm really old and there won't be anyone to read something written by an ancient. i'll be lucky to catch the old crowd at this rate.

i am sometimes afraid that there is nothing extraordinary enough in my life for me to have material as a writer; even my pain is relatively common, predictable, readily survived. what do i have to offer the world? i have insight, i have loved, i have lost. maybe now i've won (that is something i'd like to offer the world - the one where they live happily ever after). but there is little tension in my life and i'm not sure i know how to generate it for the sake of fiction.

i re-read some writing tonight that i consider among my finest and it both encourages and discourages me. the writing comes in the form of letters which were so powerful, so persuasive, so georgously metaphorical, so plain-spoken. i had so much to say, life imitated art, art imitated life and coincidence was a common occurance. now, i am struggling to type these small words. what happened? the voice in my head silenced by a 'real job' where i do work instead of writing long elaborate emails to willing far-away correspondents? i wonder if i could go back to being an admin assistant - a position which for me required far less of my brains than time and offered plenty of opportunity to not think but to dream. granted sometimes it was a challenge to keep myself awake but i managed. sometimes i'm incredibly busy now and it's still a challenge to keep myself awake. hmmm.

it's been raining all weekend and i keep remarking on it but it doesn't seem to make any difference to the rain which keeps on. i wonder occasionally at the forecast but it never really matters to me for the most part. wake up that day and wear what you wear. no point in getting worked up about it in advance.

i need something to shock my reality. i need a jolt of something to inspire this prose. i still have plenty of theories, plenty of social commentary but no passion for it. the devil is dead. the audience of one is a mere shadow. the treasures of far away lands are exactly that. was i ever even really there? a photography show at a bangkok university gallery. brilliant. can't exactly stumble across that on here in town, now can i?

miss you to me. me? yes me. miss me.