put-out

the problem with me is i am completely incapable of thinking about a story without an object to dedicate it to. it irks me no less than a deparment store attendant stalks me as if i'd take the tacky piece of shirt they have that i cannot piece together single sentences i form in a day's time. now they remain status updates in my facebook and not longer, finer forms of work.

ridiculously so, i need to be at least in a delusional state before i can write. by delusional, i mean constantly fantasizing of a happily ever always with the object of the moment (as it may change from time to time), filled with the intoxicating sensation of auden and neruda's poems, and/or on the verge of not having money the next day. it doesn't feel uplifting that i need certain situations to fuel my drive to write decently. sporadically, i scribble thoughts in my notebook or start with some concept in my laptop or phone then after a few days, i cannot finish what i have so passionately imagined i would finish. this leaves me frustrated. like now.

i have more than 10 poems in my laptop waiting to be completed, a short-story with a story line always tweaked for effect that's still at its fourth paragraph, an attempt at chic flick with potential characters complete with names, attitude but no movement, and a whole lot more in my notebook that i still sentimentally use for sentiments' sake.

powerless and petty. i used to not find it hard to get the pen moving. but now, even the sight of the words openly staring at me while i try to ignore them scares me so much that i turn to songs, movies, and books to fill in the gaping hole of desire to write.

for now it's nothing but desire. a burning desire that hasn't even set the pen flaming with words.