Welcome To My Bed

Ink and writing.

A pair of new tattoos is in the works, one for the inside of either ankle. Two Latin words from the Tolstoy short story "The Death of Ivan Ilych". Have I ever mentioned that Tolstoy ruined reading for me? Some good things are just so good that you get depressed because very few things could dream of being any better.

At an rate, I have been having severe writer's block as of late. Nobody has helped yet. I just keep trying to make things happen, but my brain has flat-lined, or something else equally as horrifying has happened. I have been old everything, spanning a broad spectrum reaching from "read more" to "listen to Nowhere Man off of Rubber Soul". I keep coming back around to the conclusion that all I need is more stimulus that isn't something imagined out of nothing. Watching as many movies as I can get my hands on and reading as much as I can stand are only two small things I can do. I wrote the most when I had constant stimulus. I guess living with someone can have that effect on you. And now that most of my day is spent isolated, it is hard to tell if that is the chief cause of all of this strife. In short, I really need to get out more. Human contact really does wonders for my imagination. I'm sure someone has a theory somewhere about all of this, but I have yet to find it, let alone figure how I might be helped.