sense of loss

ernest hemingway shot himself in the head. many writers end their lives in dramatic ways, usually by drinking themselves to death. sometimes i think i am not fortunate because i don't have such ailments. although, i can identify with people's helplessness sometimes, being slaves to depression or inaction.

two days ago i blew my knee out. i don't think anything is broken or torn, but i definitely screwed it up. i have never felt so helpless in my entire life. making lunch is now a chore. i'll be fine in a week or two, but i couldn't help but get hit by a wave of helplessness, and a stark realization that loneliness is predatory, and knows the exact time to strike.

at any rate, this feeling is now creeping into
cooler than the millions. there is a disconnect that is showing between the characters as i plot out the story in my head. a disconnect where one character is starting to become literally invisible, while another desperately tries to save himself, and a third is losing what little humanity he has left. the ideas are getting intense and the characters are really starting to shape up, and for the first time, i believe i have a female lead character who is more than one dimensional. i am whole-heartedly invested in this plot, which is exciting and scary at the same time. and for the first time, i'm not really basing any characters on any of my friends; i'm basing all these characters on myself, as sort of various shades of myself. getting sick or injured sucks, but at least it gives me a lot of time to think.

my writing has always been the strongest when i endure negative emotions, like anger or depression or regret. the good thing is that i never wallow too long in these emotional states, at least not long enough to drive me to shoot myself in the head. that, is obviously, a very good thing, because i have no intention of leaving this world any time soon. i mean, i want to be ernest hemingway - every writer secretly does - but i don't want to end up like him.