Books

Are better than looks.
They are also what i read a lot of, lately.

Somewhere i fell out of the habit of reading for pleasure (save the rare piece of erotica...heh, get it? its a pun.). From elementary school through middle school and onto the middle segment of high school I was a voracious reader. Couldn't leave the house without a book on me, always looking for something new, constantly in middle of at least three different novels. And then it ground to a halt.

It ground to a halt around the time, if i recall correctly, that the writing stopped. By 'the' writing, I mean my writing. And now i find all of these things coming back to me.

and thusly i rejoice.

I think it had something to do with China. Trapped in a world with which i could communicate in only the most basic ways (food and sex being the two things i could easily procure) my conciousness turned in towards itself and began once again to produce. To reproduce, perhaps, in vain attempts to re-surround myself with the familiar. After all, writing and painting created an oasis of familiarity in foreign world. And now that I'm back home, I find these urges not only live on but flourish. Yay.

It feels as though something that had been pinned in place has now been let loose, and can circulate itself through out my system. Honey being stirred into hot water, warming and expanding, separating into translucent golden strands suspended in clear liquid. Thats it is, and i like it. It's good to be back in a place where i seek to create and experience with equal intensity. Having taken a step back and allowed time to drift past, drinking in emotional, physical, temporal and ethereal experiences my will is at last ready to drop back into the hustle and bustle of artistic energy. I am once again an active participant in the collective unconcious, up from a brief break by the sidelines.

Aren't you so happy to hear it?
blaow.