more often than not, i find myself talking to myself not in my own voice(s), but those of the characters in my writing. perhaps because some of my characters are direct extensions of my personality, i feel compelled to speak through them, or act through them, or live through them, a habit i'm finding most dangerous as of late.
this morning, in the shower, i slipped into the mindset of Reykjavik, the main character of the universe i'm currently working in, and went off on a ten-minute monologue about insanity and liberation and the nature of reality. i hate to sound...orchidacous, for lack of a better term, because i never come to any conclusions when i ponder such things. but that's what happens when you're lonely, i guess.
last night, i had dinner with a friend of mine, a recently-divorced man 30 years my senior who seems to be dealing with the same issues (fear, loneliness, frustration) i'm dealing with. while, in some ways, it made me feel better to know that my problems even plague those whom i think have it all, it doesn't do anything in the way of brightening my world outlook. of course, he did say one thing that sticks with me.
"when i was your age, i could have done anything i wanted, anything at all. the only thing that could stop me was my attitude, and it did."
it rained today, and even that wasn't enough to cheer me up. i'm starting to think that i need to see a doctor.
25.09.2003-Epilogue.
30.08.2003-Exeunt, the Moor.
28.08.2003-why?
27.08.2003-Last night, and august in general.