if you think that i'm nothing

Subject:	kenophonia? (johnny, wenn du Geburtstag hat...)
Time:	7:49 pm.
Music:	weill - dreigroschenoper.

I want to write Xu/Quistis again.

Such an odd statement, sounds like I haven't written Xu/Quistis in a long time - and, you know, whichever one it was i last finished, i did so in november or december, not long ago. There are a good five possibly outstanding (there were seven hefner 'hymns', if ever wanted a full set of seven 'hymns' fics) - of which about two have good basic ideas behind them. Those two have been started, or thought about.

But I'm not writing them.

Xu's... Xu's /mine/, the character i can write with something approaching to confidence because she /makes sense/ to me. Should do: after all, she's mostly my invention, canon doesn't give much characterisation to work from (although what little it gives i'd like to think i use). And I'm scared of writing her wrong, and not knowing it. And, quite frankly, people /like/ my Xu/Quistis stuff: I'm afraid that I've developed an audience to please with the next one. What if this one isn't good? What if I've peaked and never can that level of right again attain?

These things i fret over, while my brain is empty. Empty, empty, empty: not a particularly fascinating word. void sounds better, the abyss! except not, the adjective of that is abysmal, and meaning has changed for that particular word. Absent, maybe: in absentia sum. mein Kopf ist leer, caput meum inanis est, kefalh mou kenoV estin (how lucky? to open the dictionary right on the word for empty which i did not know, the world is sending me signals). Leery, inane... make an adjective from kenos-, kenophonic? Empty words from an empty mind. promissio inanis, an empty promise, somnia vana, empty dreams (scattered about the sleeping form of sleep in his sleepy cave amonge the darke Cimmerians), how ironic that i splurge words and languages in order to speak of how i have no knowledge. These things are useless, have no use, (vanus, adj.: empty, useless) are but words and words are a nothing, are empty air (aura vana, anima vana, aer vanus, aether vanus, vanus wherever they are in the world). Tonight I think in latin. Latin makes phrases well, it is the language of a race of declamationists, their speechmakers are not 'rhtwroi but orators, a new art of its own separate from that of the feminine-noun-ending poeta and his mincing kind.

My brain /feels/ very empty: there's a secondary brain under it that's full of stuff, that immediately recognises conjunctions and prepositions, that calculates the right amount of money to give in shops that will give me change in a certain denomination - i can't be the only person who does that, can i? will give £5.25 when it's £4.75 because i want 50p change and not more fives to clutter my wallet - and these things happen automatically, no input from 'me'. My secondary brain /knows/, and /works/, but it's not the one running things, maybe because i'm afraid of what it will do, i have no control over it.

My brain that I use, however, is distinctly non-functional: things float in, and they float out, and i... float. Cast adrift in a sea of lack of knowledge, clinging to a leaky raft of boredom that will soon break apart and leave me hanging desperately to a single spar of apathy. The ship of reason that i see on the horizon has turned from me, is sailing fast away to the archipegalo of safety without me on it. And about me the shoals of doubtfish dart in silvering packs, nibble on my toes with their remorseless worryteeth, sharpened on the cuttlefishbones of teenage angst like the bills of fretful budgerigars.

heh. Poor extended metaphor, how i abuse thee.

...die ganze Nacht.

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