Oh, my beautiful idiot...

"Then you stole me... and I stole you."
"I borrowed you."
"Borrowing implies the eventual intention to return the thing that was taken... What makes you think I would ever give you back?"







He calls her “Sexy.” He strokes bits of her and sweet talks her while also banging her parts with relentless and seemingly reckless abandon. He stole her, and she allowed herself to be stolen. They traveled for hundreds of years together and never spoke... until she was ripped from her home and crammed into a fragile female form.
Talk about innovation.

“The Doctor’s Wife” may eventually rank among the best ever Doctor Who episodes for sheer inventiveness alone. That and the brilliance that is Neil Gaiman.

While I am insanely jealous of this literal outside the bigger-on-the-inside box thinking, it is also inspiring. It fires some of those dormant, struggling synapses within my own writer’s mind, begging me to re-examine some of my own projects. They call to me, requesting that I Gaiman it up a bit --- to think of the maddest things imaginable, the seemingly impossible twist, and write it.
I’m not what one would call a true worshipper at the altar of Gaiman, but I may have just become a convert. Any writer who can do something entirely new with the Whoniverse after its nearly fifty year history deserves more than respect. He deserves adoration, accolades, and genuine gratitude for his innovative and inspiring ideas.

The brain is aching. The fingers are twitching. The soul is yearning for something new. I’m ready to leave myself unlocked for the mad thief of inspiration to rush inside and take me for a ride.

"Weakness is tiring, but strength is exhausting."

"I am tired of being strong."

My life, it seems right now, is a series of snippets mashed together. There is no linear progression from task to task or day to day. I go through the same procedures yet the feeling is one of constant interruption and chaos. Long, novel experiences and thoughts are suppressed beneath layer upon layer of brief interludes. Some thoughts and feelings and experiences are pleasant; some are reflective or inspiring; many are stressful and exhausting. All seem fleeting and inconstant. This does not sit well for someone who, though adaptable and capable of eternal juggling, requires a certain level of consistency and stability. Not a lot, really, just a bit to keep me tethered to a plane that resembles reality.
There’s too much shifting, too much uncertainty. Too many good ideas without a home and too many depressing and/or stagnant thoughts which arise and fester.

To put it succinctly:
I’m in a major funk with no semblance of how to rise out of it. I’m outwardly trying to hold on to the calm while inwardly feeling like a ship being ripped apart by a storm with no break in the weather or rescue boat on the way.

I have brief periods where something inspires me, and then am bombarded with an avalanche of negativity from varied directions and those fleeting moments of possibilities are quashed by the heavy burden of reality. I know it cannot remain like this forever. I know, even now, there is hope left… but I cannot see it. (Yeah, been retreading a little LotR).

I can’t even watch films properly right now as everything only settles in increments of a few minutes. The greater picture is lost while the few moments of true emotion I try to cling to are soon overcome by more confusing and aggravating ‘real life’ occurrences. Not being able to escape blows.

To use a current, popular yet crude, analogy being tossed around my office: I need to get the cock out of my mouth, but I can’t find it right now. I need someone to help find the cock and possibly help get it out.

And this is my life right now…