I'm reading this marvelous article on the imagination. Let it set mine free. Tonight the goal is to revise my overwrought thesis to the point of presentability.
I have lived monastically, scholastically, and in a lonely ivory tower for two years now. I am my own witch. I let down my own hair. I climb down my own hair and hope to find a prince or a kingdom or a reward for sitting up here spinster style, spinning, spinning, spinning.
What do I weave with my golden threads? I weave attempts at thoughts that are supposed to be meaningful in terms of the wondrous human experience. They are supposed to fit into the box you give me. Society gives us boxes to fill. I'm sitting in this interesting box. It's lit with candles and full of other isolated spellbound zombies.
I've got my cappuccino and thoughts to keep me company. Courage said Goethe. The Faustian striving spins on, curse-like, making self-punishing soldiers of men.
It's rainy as hell inside and out. If life were a movie this would make for a good depressing scene. Drip, drip, write. Drip, drip, write. The faucet is open again. I want to sink into the waterfall of my imagination with a merman and an endless ocean of time and body. Expanse, expand.
