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Tuesday, December 03, 2002
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Standing outside smoking just now (god only knows how long ago I should be doing my homework) and thinking of school... well It doesn't matter what the thought train was - it was long and convoluted - I was reminded of something that I once read about Terry Pratchett. That he was one of the most disciplined authors the speaker knew. Supposedly he began his writing career by sitting down in front of a typewriter every night and typing until he had written something like 1000 words. One thousand words of... whatever. Supposedly it is something that he still does to this day, but that's not what struck me. What struck me was.. I could do that. Maybe not 1000 words every night... but some words. Some set amount. Every night. So long as it didn't matter what it was or what I said or how "good" it was. I could write. And I'm interested in seeing what would come out.
- Standing outside here on the back porch at night, smoking by myself, always reminds me of that night in August. I look up at the stars and I see my shadow on the ground before me and I think of that night. It doesn't make me sad anymore, but I always remember. I wonder if that will ever change.
- I'm still not sure what to do with my letter from D. Its very strange and turbulent in my thoughts. I want to reply... but i'm not sure what to say.. what can be said anymore that would make one ounce of difference.
- Whenever you're not beside me at night I miss the sound of your heartbeat in my ears. The warmpth of your pale skin and peace of being held in your arms. I miss the weight and softness of your body beside me: long and strong, even in dreams. In your hands I am made into something soft and precious. Something femine and sweet, and worthy of being adored. Within the strength of your arms I do not have to be strong or bitter. Iron melts to silver in my veins, and for that perfect space I can be the thing that I adore: the grace and softness of woman.
With you I have no need for armour.
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