Feeling fictional.

Maybe life has just gotten too dull, but my mind has turned to thoughts of the made up and surreal, even though that isn't its normal orientation. I had visions of a story about commercial pirates--the swashbuckling kind, not mp3 freeloaders--in a world with a zombie problem. This is the kind of thing I might think to write two paragraphs on and never return to, because I haven't got the heart for fiction.

And it struck me, maybe I've lost the heart for storytelling altogether. I can't tell you how many times I've started a story in the past few months, only to finish with the other person saying, "...yeah?," a disappointed lilt to their voice. There's all kinds of strange occurrences that become built up in my mind and turn to mush when I try to let them out. It's bad news.

I don't know how I ever wrote anything, at this point. I think about it and wonder how I had the patience and concentration.

I wonder if it's a symptom of thoughts I've been hiding away, like tshirts in an overflowing drawer, and now I can't close the drawer and I can't find anything, either. I'm getting lost in mundane metaphors and similes made up for the sake of pretending one neuron can still make a connection with another neuron in some meaningful way.

And I come here and tell you all about blah blah blah. Today I bought coffee. I was out. I ate lunch at a Vietnamese restaurant with some coworkers. I had the vegetable curry and fresh spring rolls. When I came home, my boyfriend and I went out for Ethiopian again. We always order the veggie combo and mitten shiro. The latter is as warm and comforting in my hands as its coincidental namesake.

I have plans to see a matinee of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and hit up some inexpensive clothing stores tomorrow. Sunday's plans remain tentative. I am trying very hard.

How is everyone else? Anyone want to write for my zine? I'll start. I'll get right on it. I'll make something real someday.