Ishmael Dreaming

So you know what happened today?

I had one of those brilliant moments of. Well. Not inspiration, and not motivation, but its somewhere between them, somewhere in that general region. Not only did I want to write (I basically always want to write), not only did I feel that I should be writing, that I could be writing, that I even knew what it was that I should be writing down, but I had one of those beautiful moments when writing is so simple and perfect and you can think of what you mean and it comes out as fast as you can write it down. One of those moments when writing isn't just something that I might do, or should do or could do, but when it's something so easy and fun and exciting-- like a revelation about your work and about yourself. It felt joyous. I was elated.

And then, I purposefully stopped for three hours. I knew I was squandering something incredibly precious, and it wasn't even that I was tempted to do something else, but I was asked to stop and even though I could have said this isn't a great time right now, I'm bus, I'm writing, leave me alone, come back later-- I could have, but I chose not to, even though I knew then that I might not be able to get that feeling back, even though I knew I might not get another moment like that for days, for weeks sometimes.

So now it's about three hours later. I'm gonna give it a touch more time, refresh my flist, and then tentatively try to ease back into it. It might happen still-- I haven't actually forgotten any of the things I was going to write, that isn't quite what I mean, it is-and I am, I suppose- just quite tempremental, and I can't tell whether I'll be able to flick it on as easil as a light switch or have to work at it subtly or whether I'll simply have to wait. 

It's just, I can't help mourning what I might have written in that frenzy. It's weird, because I'm pretty sure I'll write it anyway, but there's something about being so completely caught up that means when I'm not I get wistful for it. It's the kind of feeling that reminds me that writing isn't something I do because I think I'm good at it or because I want to get published, it remind me that writing is something I do because I am compelled to do so and that when I am it's ver simply the best feeling in the world. That moment of clarity and drive and beauty is the reason why I keep doing it at all, and the reason I'd never be able to give it up.

Oh, and the other thing that I wanted to post about, that has me so incredibly frustrated? 

Yesterday, it was sunny. There was still snow everwhere, but it wasn't falling out of the sky, so that was a good thing. And this morning? No new snow, clear skies, lovely and sunny. I watched the snow on the roof I can see from m computer receeding until it was practically all gone. I turn my back for lunch, and at the end of lunch? I notice that it's onl bloddy snowing AGAIN. I like watching snow. But I do not for one second want it to snow properly again tomorrow, or y'know, anytime again theis whole season actually. I AM TOO BUSY FOR SNOW. And if it snows some more, and I go to school and get even sicker again, right when I am practically well again, I am going to scream. And then, y'know, die a little.