An image-day today, an idea-day, a fragment-day. Spent it in one of those moods where even the rabbit-holes in ditches looked sinister. The white fragments in lemon/honey tea swirling like a dust devil. Fingers spiderily trying three times to put the rehearsed motions of password-typing in the right place. Weather grey again, and the magpies gone again. Other people never notice things, like the metal fence outside our maths test weeks ago squeaking two notes a perfect fifth apart as it warped in the wind; the strange beauty of the ugliness of the real world and its real people. Too commercialised, too conditioned to see how ugly beauty is, how beautiful hideousness is.
I'm in one of those moods, still. Everything feels kind of useless. As if I'm not good at what I like, and I don't like what I'm good at. Futile. I can't deal with schoolwork and everyday petty rivalries when my head is spinning with trying to observe the not-quite-real that surrounds us. There's stuff I'll write about, when I get around to it: books and choir competitions and past-present-future life. But that's too normal for right now.
I shouldn't be writing. I gave up creative writing for Lent, to sort out my attitude. It's not working, and sometimes things just overflow.
