Thursday
The Incredible 80's Cartoon Extravaganza
For those of you who don't get it, or are a bit too young to remember, I've made the video thingy on the side panel show different cartoon intros from the 1980's. I know they're not all there, but at least the ones I loved watching the most. (I also admit that Jem was a guilty pleasure even though I was a five year old kid addicted to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles).
Noctambulatory Pangs
I find myself staring at a gold pocket watch, watching how its hands slowly move along its circular surface and tell me that it's almost twenty past five in the morning. I still haven't gone to sleep, and I hardly think that I will at any point today. Maybe it's the incessant napping I do during the day, in order to avoid the dreary fact that it's winter, and the sun goes down way too quickly. That's not to say that I don't pride myself on being a denizen of the night, since I feel more creative when the shining darkness is around me. Of course that sounds weird, and obviously it's some cliché I probably ripped off some cheesy movie, but can you blame me? I seriously doubt that there is anything truly original out there (like that sentence I just wrote), but then again if we get mixed up in that argument we'll keep going round in circles till someone begs that we switch over to a triangular format.
It's the absence of my voice, and the hard clicking that my fingers do against the keyboard that echo within the walls of my room (well not actually my room, but the room where the computer's at). Though I am a very talkative person, and I believe there is at least a dozen people that can testify to that, I simply love shutting down my physical voice and give in to my inner ones. Much like my conscience which I believe has a very nonchalant voice. I still don't know whether it's my ego, super ego or that other psychological person that head doctors keep talking about. In any case, that voice in my head also happens to be the one that recites the crap I write in almost any media; and though it sounds Shakespearean in my head, I'm pretty sure it's more near the awful line most of the time. In any case I digress, I still haven't learned it's name yet, my conscience that is, and most likely he'll never tell me (don't ask me why I said he, but that's the only sure thing I know, my conscience has a masculine demeanor about it...read however you want into that).
I'll just keep writing until I come up with something witty, which I guess won't be anytime soon, but bear with me and help me untangle myself from this accursed writers block that keeps appearing like some left-wing teenage rabble that needs to protest about the state of trees in some godforsaken park (did that make any sense whatsoever??) . I have written some very good things in my forays into creative writing; some even were pretty clever, with a surreal kind of humor I've always liked to play with. But lately this hasn't been the case since I've found myself writing some very unoriginal high fantasy stories that require little to almost no imagination. Then again, those stories are more likely to be attempts to get out of the writers block by any means necessary; kind of like in a James Bond movie, when our hero is 'forced' to systematically torture a henchman in order to get the main villain's hideout (Stavro Bloefeld is a good choice I think...played by Savalas of course). I hope that at some point I stop writing this inconsistent drivel and pummel out something with flesh in it. Till now this looks more like a processed McDonalds hamburger: it has the taste and the colors, but will it really satisfy and make you truly happy?
Let's give up here, since I feel the oncoming army of Zees marching near my eardrums; they'll buzz for a while until I finally rocket off to dreamland and dream weird things which I will not remember once I wake up. I can feel the corniness of that line sprout around me. Maybe I'll start a popcorn brand at some point.
It's the absence of my voice, and the hard clicking that my fingers do against the keyboard that echo within the walls of my room (well not actually my room, but the room where the computer's at). Though I am a very talkative person, and I believe there is at least a dozen people that can testify to that, I simply love shutting down my physical voice and give in to my inner ones. Much like my conscience which I believe has a very nonchalant voice. I still don't know whether it's my ego, super ego or that other psychological person that head doctors keep talking about. In any case, that voice in my head also happens to be the one that recites the crap I write in almost any media; and though it sounds Shakespearean in my head, I'm pretty sure it's more near the awful line most of the time. In any case I digress, I still haven't learned it's name yet, my conscience that is, and most likely he'll never tell me (don't ask me why I said he, but that's the only sure thing I know, my conscience has a masculine demeanor about it...read however you want into that).
I'll just keep writing until I come up with something witty, which I guess won't be anytime soon, but bear with me and help me untangle myself from this accursed writers block that keeps appearing like some left-wing teenage rabble that needs to protest about the state of trees in some godforsaken park (did that make any sense whatsoever??) . I have written some very good things in my forays into creative writing; some even were pretty clever, with a surreal kind of humor I've always liked to play with. But lately this hasn't been the case since I've found myself writing some very unoriginal high fantasy stories that require little to almost no imagination. Then again, those stories are more likely to be attempts to get out of the writers block by any means necessary; kind of like in a James Bond movie, when our hero is 'forced' to systematically torture a henchman in order to get the main villain's hideout (Stavro Bloefeld is a good choice I think...played by Savalas of course). I hope that at some point I stop writing this inconsistent drivel and pummel out something with flesh in it. Till now this looks more like a processed McDonalds hamburger: it has the taste and the colors, but will it really satisfy and make you truly happy?
Let's give up here, since I feel the oncoming army of Zees marching near my eardrums; they'll buzz for a while until I finally rocket off to dreamland and dream weird things which I will not remember once I wake up. I can feel the corniness of that line sprout around me. Maybe I'll start a popcorn brand at some point.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)