All you need is love and RAM

Usually, before I begin to write, I stop. My hand freezes over the shift key, my left index finger poised over the left hand side of the keyboard. itching towards an 'I'. I smile. In the split second before my finger hits whatever key it does, a muddle of thoughts and sights and smells regarding my latest offering whiz through my head. Its like a stream of technicolour.

Will the gods truly punish me for writing? Am I really eight, stuck and tired and weepy and not really wanting to push monsters away anymore? Do I want a wicked sword? Do vegetables really grow beaks and become fearsome crane like creatures?

*dreams dreams dreams*

Why can't I be normal and dream of boys, and other such? Or maybe even cars? Or creation? Or paint...ooh! paintball. Now that would be a nice dream. Why doesn't inspiration visit me through dreams? Why is it weird stuff?

*vegetable cranes - seriously, i need help right?*

I re-read rick riordan today. (p.s. let me tell you, in the last two years, I have done a who-o-ole lot of reading. ) If you ever get to the part about river styx, you'll understand.

So whats up.

Amidst the Flowers a Jug of Wine

Amidst the flowers a jug of wine,
I pour alone lacking companionship.
So raising the cup I invite the Moon,
Then turn to my shadow which makes three of us.
Because the Moon does not know how to drink,
My shadow merely follows the movement of my body.
The moon has brought the shadow to keep me company a while,
The practice of mirth should keep pace with spring.
I start a song and the moon begins to reel,
I rise and dance and the shadow moves grotesquely.
While I'm still conscious let's rejoice with one another,
After I'm drunk let each one go his way.
Let us bind ourselves for ever for passionless journeyings.
Let us swear to meet again far in the Milky Way.

Li Po