1: An essay, of sorts, true.

[alasanon]

A pencil, held loosely in my hand, moves across the paper in curious waves and threads, striving to make some sort of beauty out of plastic and graphite scratches. A pen, gripped tightly enough to leave marks on my fingers when it is released, leaves behind a painful argument of black on blank, lacking sense, lacking form, lacking pride, either in and of itself or for my efforts.

I have spent more time with my instruments in my hands in the last month than I had in a strange amount of time before that. It feels like returning home after a long time abroad, like strange waters that rise over your head until at last you realize that they are really the warm safety of your scented bathwater.

I'm sorry, that last was a stretch, wasn't it? I can't help it. I keep wanting to drift off into funny little tangents and crosspaths. I'm not good at keeping at writing over a span of two hours. My mood fluctuates too fiercely most of the time.

I'll try this again in a while, after I've rested.