A momentary lapse in emotional coordination.

It's strange, the way I can hear your voice in my head as I read your words; decoding every syllable, adding in all the complex emotional inflections almost by reflex. I can see your mouth forming the words, almost feel the hum of your vocal cords in your throat as you push air through them, the muscles of your face and throat and mouth in intricate motion that transforms thoughts into sounds. I can hear the sound of your lips parting into a smile, a slippery kind of breaking suction announcing your radiance shining out into the void. That I can definitely feel. Your smile is as tangible and real as sunshine.

I see analogues for you and I in nearly every book I read, and I hate it. I read Hemingway, watching drunk expatriates through his eyes but interpreted by my mind, I note the way that Jake Barnes hopelessly holds on to Lady Brett Ashley, and the way that she holds on to him, and it's sick. Sadistic. Such pain, such longing, they have no rightful place in the world. Poor impotent Barnes. With only the ghost of a complicated love left in his heart, he fills his days with wine, bullfights, trout fishing and various acquaintances. He seems happy enough through most of the story, yet I can feel the undercurrent of melancholy that flows throughout. His half hidden bitterness taints every experience, as Brett swings in and out of his life like some kind of heart wrenching pendulum. I feel all these things because they are my own personal experiences. I know how Barnes feels because he and I are kindred spirits.

But Jake Barnes and I only have ourselves to blame for our misery.  We both hold on to things from our pasts not so much because we can't leave them behind, but because we don't want to. Something about those memories comforts us at the same time it drives us into depression. Maybe it's just some form of trickery, something related to the way emotions can twist and warp an otherwise logical mind. Maybe it's because those memories are something real and tangible, to us and us alone. A special, infinitely precious secret to be guarded and kept forever, even if it makes you sad. Or maybe you were right all along. Maybe you really don't ever forget your first love.

I like to think that the Rapture has already taken place, but there was only like, one "righteous" being who got taken to heaven, so it didn't make headlines. Instead, it was just a Missing Persons report.

Stretching Myself Thin

Sometimes, I look at all the projects I've started(or in some cases, want to start) and I feel a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of them. I'm playing in two bands, working on three separate movies at once, not to mention all the necklaces I haven't taken time to sit down and make. Then there's my oldest project, a novel I started exactly four years ago today and still haven't gotten anywhere close to finishing. I mean, I could finish all of the necklaces in one day and be done with them, and the bands really don't take up that much of my time, but even if I just shit out the scripts for the films, those take a LOT of time, energy and money to make. And I want to make three of them.

In a way, it's nice having so many different things to work on. If I lose inspiration for one of them, like the novel, I can abandon it for two years or so, work on other things, then come back to it when I've got a different perspective. But on the other hand, I feel like this approach means I'll never actually finish any of the projects I've started. It takes a lot of discipline and time management to do a thing like this properly.