so it's 5:40 in the morning
Jul. 9th, 2002 05:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aruanand I just broke my single, cardinal rule of fanfiction. I have but one. No discrimination on genre, rating, pairing, or situation here. Nope, just one little self-imposed guideline for the sake of my sanity.
No Works In Progress.
I forget to bookmark them, they never get finished, a myriad reasons but that remains to this day the only limiting variable in the happy little equation that is me and fanfic.
And yet. And yet here I stand, sad and free, having plunged myself headlong into jenn's Something Like Forgetting. I could cry. From joy or madness I wouldn't be able tell, but if I wasn't so damn exhausted I'd make a very visceral showing of just how I feel about this girl.
And because none of the aforementioned was enough, there's a sequel to Closer to Breathing in the works.
I ask you, who will save my soul when it comes to the angst-ridden prospect of the beautiful if futile revisionist history that is Clark/Lex?
There's too.much.love.
I'm speaking in songtitles. My inner hopeless romantic is a broken, huddled mass, and I just *ache* from having too many emotions to express, trapped in the house of the rising sun and fearing the light as much as if I were one of the undead.
I am adrift. Water water everywhere, and it just seems possible that they really are the tears of some desperately forlorn ancient deity.
Memories of happy pills and straightjackets and I'd always thought that was just some running gag but no, it seems that they become, ironically, the life preservers of sanity once you've sudmerged yourself deep enough in the abyss of uncharted fathoms. Mythology and metaphors and star-crossed destinies and fate and free will and means and ends and love and hate and lines and nothing but each other and I can't begin to count the ways that I am in boundless awe and debt to everyone who's making this happen.
Tragedy is like those fine Scotches Lex keeps reassuring Clark he just needs to develop a taste for, that it's not just bitter and stinging but be savored for its texture and complexity, the toil and time that went into the richness of its flavor, the fire it stokes in the heart, not just the belly.
I am at once idealism's and inevitability's bitch. Problem is, I can't tell which one is twisting the knife. More pertinently, however, the issue at hand is that I can't.Stop.
I wonder if that makes me a sadist or a masochist. Obsession may not be pretty, but damn if it doesn't put out.
...Which I should do now.
Sleep is for the level-headed.
No Works In Progress.
I forget to bookmark them, they never get finished, a myriad reasons but that remains to this day the only limiting variable in the happy little equation that is me and fanfic.
And yet. And yet here I stand, sad and free, having plunged myself headlong into jenn's Something Like Forgetting. I could cry. From joy or madness I wouldn't be able tell, but if I wasn't so damn exhausted I'd make a very visceral showing of just how I feel about this girl.
And because none of the aforementioned was enough, there's a sequel to Closer to Breathing in the works.
I ask you, who will save my soul when it comes to the angst-ridden prospect of the beautiful if futile revisionist history that is Clark/Lex?
There's too.much.love.
I'm speaking in songtitles. My inner hopeless romantic is a broken, huddled mass, and I just *ache* from having too many emotions to express, trapped in the house of the rising sun and fearing the light as much as if I were one of the undead.
I am adrift. Water water everywhere, and it just seems possible that they really are the tears of some desperately forlorn ancient deity.
Memories of happy pills and straightjackets and I'd always thought that was just some running gag but no, it seems that they become, ironically, the life preservers of sanity once you've sudmerged yourself deep enough in the abyss of uncharted fathoms. Mythology and metaphors and star-crossed destinies and fate and free will and means and ends and love and hate and lines and nothing but each other and I can't begin to count the ways that I am in boundless awe and debt to everyone who's making this happen.
Tragedy is like those fine Scotches Lex keeps reassuring Clark he just needs to develop a taste for, that it's not just bitter and stinging but be savored for its texture and complexity, the toil and time that went into the richness of its flavor, the fire it stokes in the heart, not just the belly.
I am at once idealism's and inevitability's bitch. Problem is, I can't tell which one is twisting the knife. More pertinently, however, the issue at hand is that I can't.Stop.
I wonder if that makes me a sadist or a masochist. Obsession may not be pretty, but damn if it doesn't put out.
...Which I should do now.
Sleep is for the level-headed.
