Back to writing without an actual purpose for me. Well, there's really nothing new to write about, except maybe for us having to resubmit the concept proposal again and the usual introspective stuff.
But it's come a few weeks too late. I was expecting not to be able to write as much as I have within the past weeks, much more take photos. Even more surprising I'm becoming this slob that's busy sleeping, thinking and not doing stuff. Well, for once it's finally happened, and sometimes there really are valid reasons to do so, but eventually you wonder about what happens next. I still don't have much regarding the ten hours of advocacy work I'm supposed to accomplish for religion class, but that's because most of what I do - or what I believe I have to do - involves coordinating everybody. And what I assigned myself to do relies on everybody else submitting their stuff.
Call me lazy now, though. I honestly feel that my priorities have been turned around without my consent.
Or maybe I've been restless again. People complain about that, me being so perky at eight in the morning - but who cam blame someone who's awake at four? - and yet when listening to the lessons being discussed, or to the sound of disinterest, I end up thinking about other things, and I get distracted. That's a part of me, though, long accepted, complete with medical evidence, and unnerving enthusiasm. It's strange, but it happens.
I don't end up spending sleepless nights on an unsuspecting population. I actually enjoy what I do, or find something fun about it, for some peculiar reason. For example, there's this weird calm that gets you off-track once you enter M209, or when your mind drifts into thinking of names and stories for the screenplays we're tasked to do. But you still feel that, after all the "productivity" you have committed yourself to, it feels like it's gone wrong somewhere - more of a mutation than an outright injury, but it still warrants a constant scratch. You wonder why you want to do one thing but cannot, for some reason, push through. Scritch scritch scritch, with no sign of relief in the near future, and yet you have to scratch it.
Or maybe it's my love of situating myself in scenes where the camera tracks while showing all the people that could've been, should've been, or would've been.
Now I realize that I started this entry on a thought about a six-day blogging gap - a combination of holidays, cemetery visits, and a dead phone line - and ended up entertaining every other thought that crossed my head. Strange, but sometimes I wish I'm not as distracted as I am almost every time. But they say life's nothing without taking chances, and yes, these thoughts lead me to the most "productive" times of my life.
In short, I'm trying to explain why I'm jealous towards blank, blank, blank, blank, beep...