i so want to write mounds and mounds of words like i used to but nothing comes to mind...

so i shall just mindlessly ramble on until i come to something...

swimming somewhere around my consciousness right now are three unfinished pieces of prose... as much as it puts me to shame to say that one of them i'll probably never get round to finishing, i will have to tell the truth and say...
well, i suppose no one's ever going to find out what happened to Lord Graine the night he was murdered...

how sad.

now let's hope that i can finish the other pieces so that i don't seem to have no backbone whatsoever and that i have no perserverance to finish what i start.

so the past few days have been spent at home, practicing and watching the telly and going out to run errands and all that stuff that seems to be so inconsequential but when you look at the time half the day's gone.. in an hour of boredom today i started folding paper airplanes from a stack of paper that i had meant to throw out and before i knew it i was five again, and indulging in the endless, childish, yet so innocently pleasurable cycle of throwing, watching in amazement, rushing to retrieve the paper, and throwing again.

and it really helped that when looking out of the window i could actually see the sky... all grey and translucent and cloudy, promising even more rain...

that was fun...

i received a call a few days back and the caller asked why i sounded so weary.
hmm. i said i sounded tired because i was.
(that day being the day that i had to go down to get my phone serviced. and i'm one of those people they talk about in the papers who when the phone breaks down they just get depressed because they've developed some reliance on the phone. which is pretty weird cos i don't use the phone much anyway. but then and again maybe i'm secretly, unconsciously afraid of being alone and the phone allows me to, without actually being in contact with anyone, be in touch with the outside world.)
but thinking back upon the last few days it seems that my mood nowadays swings from a victorious and triumphant conviction that i'll succeed in doing what i want and this depressing, nagging feeling that i am going to, after all the trouble, have to go walking, head held tensely up, brow hardened, into NUS, to matriculate like everyone else.

i so do not want to be anyone else.

and surfing around i chanced upon this:
Pronoia: "The delusion that others think well of one, the unreasoning belief that his superiors think him to be indispensable, that his colleagues adore him, and that he is doing brilliantly in his work."
a word coined by Fred Goldner, in an article in Social Problems (1982)

and this so succinctly sums it up.

i swing between pronoia and self-doubt.

and so it seems that rambling along i have come to a reasonable length..
nighty then..

yes very abrupt i know.. but then suddenly the urge to write just dissipates into thin air.

which is a good thing, actually, since these urges to write come mostly when i feel less than perfect...