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Proud Heathen
The Out Campaign: Scarlet Letter of Atheism
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Friday. 12.8.06 9:37 am

Music: Hero/Heroine by Boys Like Girls

Don't really feel like writing. Or doing much of anything. In a weird funk lately. Stupid thoughts going through my stupid head. I'm sure they'll turn out to be wrong. Who knows.

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Orphaned Dreams
Wednesday. 12.6.06 5:27 pm

Music: "Who Needs Air" by The Classic Crime

The most frustrating thing in my world is to have things in my head that I have neither the inspiration or the skill to express. Dreams within orphaned dreams that float around the cavernous insides of my skull but can never fully manifest due to my lack of artistic talent. There are so many things that I see and feel that no one ever knows about. There are passions and dreams and ambitions that spend their whole existence in my head without ever finding their way into some sort of medium.

In so many ways music is the most profound of these homeless dreams. Music is perhaps my greatest unfulfilled passion. I hear music in my head but whenever I try to let it out so many other things get in the way. I can't find words to match the music... I don't have enough skill with any instruments to play anything... the music will stomp around inside my mind evoking heart stirring emotions but as soon as I sit down to try and let it out, usually at the piano, the well runs dry. The Muses scatter into the depths, leaving me with Silence and Frustration as my only companions.

My writing is the second of these dreams, albeit the more active of them. Almost all hours of the day my mind is pondering something. Some great event in an imaginary world which only I seem to be interested in. In the wee hours of the night when I'm alone on the night shift, my brain runs amok with visions of wars and kings and coronations. Betrayal and prophecies and heart wrenchingly tragic events. It all plays in my head like a high-budget Hollywood film. I can see most of it. I hear the voices and the wind. I can smell the blood on the battlefield and I can see the exact moment when the story turns from darkness toward the happy ending.

Which may be my problem. Because whenever I sit down to write, either no words at all come out, or the translation from pictures to words leaves a lot to be desired. Leaving me with paragraphs of text that don't come close to describing what I actually saw in my head. It's like seeing a vivid painting in your head, but when you sit down to paint it, you're left with stick figures and water color.

The only times I've actually sat down to write something that flowed out of me, something that I could actually be proud of, I put it away and when I come back to it later I immediately begin to pick it apart. I criticize every piece of writing I've ever turned out to the point that, under my intense scrutiny, it falls to pieces and I end up deleting it and starting over.

Only one time did I ever finish a project I started, and even that, in retrospect, wasn't very good. I have pages and pages of writing on my computer none of which I can read without cringing at my own ineptitude. Why can I just write anything? Why is it so difficult to make what's in my head come out through my fingers?

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