Feeling: quiet
Listening to: Matt Caplan - "Wither"
Reading/Watching: the Desmond journal. need to fill it in.

After spending all day lazy, I've taken to thinking of writing, and realized I haven't one single original idea in my head.

I think something interesting needs to happen to me before I can think of anything interesting to put on paper. You know how some people think of an odd concept and go with it, turning it into an entire plot with substories and round, true characters? Yeah. I seem to have lost my ability to do that, if I ever had it.

And I've realized, it's all in attempt to realize the conversations that buzz around my head. All the things I wish I could say to someone, either things I'm longing to tell someone real, or things I've often wanted to say, and lack someone to whom I can actually say them.

For a very long time, I would lie awake at night, whispering conversations with an absent friend: "I love you. It's not going to go away, so you might as well just fall in love with me back, and save us both time. It'd be really simple, c'mon: I'm easy to love once you get started. Think how much fun it could be."

I'd like to tell another friend (and have come frustratingly close sometimes) that there are times I wish I could be her. Times I wish I had the daring of those eyes, the heedless tilt of that head, the ability to draw people in to me so quickly, like she does. And times I'm grateful that I'm not her, because as quickly as she can draw people, she also tends to send them flying away, testing to see if they'll come back. I wouldn't want to have that magnetic pull and repulsion; I'm sometimes happier with my steady, less predictable cycle of slowly, slowly tempting someone closer, and hoping they like what they find at the summit of the trail, because the few who have followed to the end have never left.

I'd also like to have someone (anyone) come up behind me, slipping his arms around my waist, and rest his lips against the nape of my neck. It would be so entirely perfect.

I would love to look at someone across the room and have us both start laughing at the same unspoken joke.

I think I invent characters because the idea of looking through someone else's eyes utterly fascinates me. The concept of being someone who is not me, because every single person walking by is more than an actor in my private play, be it a walk-on or a recurring character. Every single person is inside their own play. It dazzles me. Just sharing the thoughts of one person for ten seconds would be so fantastic.

Maybe that's why I'm obsessed with the idea of soulmates. Because the whole idea centers around someone who is your other half, who will share your thoughts from miles away, but isn't necessarily like you in any way. It'd be like being in someone else's mind, even if it's only an infinitely small comparison to actually being that person.

And more than that, I want someone who wants to know what's going on in my head. Yes, I really am that self-centered. Mainly because I often wonder whether anyone does want to know, at all, or whether it's all just people looking on, saying, "how curious. Look what she's gone and done now."

If I write, it is my thoughts, my inventions, on display. If people want to read it, maybe it's because they want to read me, and not just find out what happens next in the saga.

And so I write.

These conversations, never actually recorded, are scribbled into air, waiting to be played out, except you know? They never will be. The cue will always be wrong, the supporting character will never know what questions to ask, and if I force the issue and launch into my dramatic monologue, they will not respond the way I want them to.

I wonder how many writers out there actually have the kind of lives they would script themselves into.

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