unwriter blocked

between the hours of 1 and 4 of the am of this morning, i wrote a semi-not-too-terrible story. Only when i just reread it, it's probably not a story yet, as much as the feel, movement, language, and basic skeleton of a story. in any case, i'm happy to have finally written something, even if it was only because i couldn't sleep, and was bored, and grew a bit nervous listening to my heart beat unnecessarily hard in my chest. to distract myself... (or, as I wrote in the novel

____i could not sleep
____and felt guilty
____and so wrote.
______________)

In any case. Hopefully in the next few days it will become apparent to me how to ameliorate it, and help her to stand on her two feet.

i suppose then you are welcome to have a read of it if such a thing should be interesting to you.

in other news, i cannot bring myself to do anything but sit at my piano and play scales. i cannot understand what might be so interesting about that... but it seems to be a way for me to sit and not have to think and not have to listen and not have to be and not have to go and not have to know and not have to do and not have to have and not have to decide and not have to face and not have to be brave and not have to analyze and not have to measure and not have to apologize and not have to calm myself and not have to worry and not have grow sad and not have to feel worried that i'm sad and not have to talk rubbish and not have to do anything but press the next white or black key in a sequence of tones and semitones and form structures we call the musical scales and which for whatever reason, once have made their way into your hands, more or less play themselves, and i (me) and free to float aimlessly into the quietest parts of myself where there is no need to know who me is or what or what to do with or all the things i fear i have already ruined thrice over with nothing but the best intentions to achieve.

nevermind.

perhaps a shower is order.

don't ask me anything, i don't know.