Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Back home and feeling sorry for myself...
This post goes into personal matters. Read if you wish, and by all means comment...I'm doing this for catharsis of a sort, in simply writing it down. I accept the consequences of writing on a public site.

I'm still stuck in my depressed rut, and can just about bring myself to scribble bits for fiction, and add slowly to articles if I can form a decent sentence or five. If anyone who happens to read this site wonders why I never talk about serious, RL, or personal stuff...that is why. I don't mean to come across as superficial, much less deceive people, but I find it all too easy to use the internet as a tool for...distraction.

I do want to put something up here, or to be more accurate, I know I will regret it if I don't do something useful towards it. It's times like this that being debilitating self-conscious and, well, shy is a disadvantage... As though it isn't the rest of the time.

I don't know what to do with this account at the moment. I'm hardly running it for popularity's sake, but...I feel its not going to be a worthwhile endeavour until I put something up here. As it stands, my articles are in a decent shape, are potential submissions. The main FMA one needs to have fangirl-ish rants weeded out of it, along with some woolly pieces of thinking. And the main thing I’m worried about is coming across as pretentious, even when 'all' I'm doing is a character analysis.

(NB: check site rules on submission)

'Neverwhere' isn't the tough read I took it to be when I first looked at it (four years ago?). I'm assuming it comes under Mum's remit that I refrain from reading anything, and I quote, 'intellectual'. Guess I'll have to stay away from Ian's bookcase. My reaction to its contents are bordering on self-caricature (to clarify, we're talking about a DIY-ed bookcase containing many books I want but can't afford). I am expected to be enthusiastic, but am silently appalled at my over-blown attempts at enjoyment. I lack discretion, and acting skills.

The fact that even, on the 'academic' side of things, an illustrated copy of Blake is failing to entice me is very, very depressing. Half a year ago, the very thought would have had me grinning like the geek I am.

Three years ago my time at university meant so much to me. And yet it has come to nothing. I mock and hate my own thoughts, but can't find any way around them.

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