Being Scara and doing what Scara does.

A self-centred piece of reflection. Well, if anything, it's not too long. "On being dependent on one's own mind" - and never have a surrogat source of production ready at the go, someone to cover me, who's with me on a plan B. Who can design a last and hidden way out. No. This is being without a backup. By Scaramouche, po(t)et and thinker, now also considered "observant observer". Something about the gaze. And a great compliment he presumably wasn't aware of himself. Which is sweet. Whatever does the world have in store for me next, I wonder. Anyways; I do keep bumping into strange, but ever so mysteriously interesting folks. Which is great. And inspiring! Soundtrack: Shania Twain - "Ain't no particular way".

I don't know what's come over me. Maybe I'm experiencing a very light writer's block, general autumn exhaustion, or repercussions of that tiresome cold; I just can't seem to get my head around the writing business these days. I can't get myself started. At the same time, exciting things do happen; things that most certainly are worth writing about, and worthy of a mentioning here at the Blog. I have had a long-predicted moment of wanting to get a proper break from the whole publishing pressure, though. Yes, I lay a lot of pressure on my own person and this her tested soul; to achieve, to perform and to meet demands. Mostly my own, as for the latter category. Sometimes I fail. But usually, I manage; one way or the other. Last week, I guess it was a bit over the top, a tad bit too busy at "school" - as we prefer to call it - and whenever I had a moment of real relaxation I spent it doing just that; relax. Meaning, divert myself. Otherwise, I was completely distracted. Slightly worn-out. I've lived through two weeks of doing loads and very little, combined. Studied a lot, I have to say, and taken care of some delayed (postponed, more rightly) obligations. Also, I've been feeding my sudden hunger for further, mental meaningfulness. Ergo, I've read books. Quite a few, lately. Found some answers. Wonderful. Got sober pleasure from looking through the figurative glass of a fictional characters; the outlines of another "species" and their endless ocean of adventures, into which I am happy to dive. And in comparison to whose lives, mine seem amazingly easy. Always works. Revised some philosophy, too, but spent most of my time on other, non-curricular literature. Crime fiction, comics and Sue Monk Kidd. Thingies we luv. Due to consequent lack of free time, have written less that's of any use for public display, with regard to the aspect of common consideration and critique. About which I am quite sensitive, I must admit. Not so fond of, either; strange as it may seem, my being a gossip-fanatic and loving Oprah Winfrey Show and all. Oh well. Have written much of a more private manner, however, and some of it will probably be posted here in some maybe-immediate future. As edited versions. I need to be more serious and seriously devoted about my blogging - never thought I were gonna say that, ever, but hey; it's true. I need to post new stuff more frequently, hereafter. Without promising anything, my gentle conscience extends itself to a meak "I'll try". After all, I love writing. Of course I do. Just have to find the energy to write properly. Because, that's where the truth lies buried; I happen to demand this particular kind of perfection. From myself, mainly. I demand a certain effort, which includes completing procjects with at least enough will to be content throughout, and a want to do good. Not perfect, but honest. And work wholeheartedly. Can't fulfill such an intention when I'm not focused, when I'm tired. Out of shape, not in form. Believe me: it's hard to be a po(t)et. Harder than it looks. Tougher than it seems. Hard for a po(t)et to allow herself to be whom she deep down wants to be, and knows she can't deviate from. Distance, yes, but not so much I can't find back to the appearance I mean to exhibit. More challenging, yet similarly; ever the more giving. I feel blessed and advantegous, yeah right. I feel dead tired and overly critical, c'est la vie. But in the end; it's all my own doing. Which should sound both extremely nice and excessively scary, and so it does. Maybe that's why it's so fascinating, as well; that's how it makes you think. In basics. A simple foundation for living. It's up to me. Strictly and completely. I can go wherever I want, I can take on whatever my ambitions may tackle, I can do whatever I like. Limited only by my own limitations; an exceeding amount of potential outcomes. Which gives you a whole lot more to struggle with, trust me. Whenever I feel like I succeed, it feels ten times better. It's a greater achievement, it's a solo work. And whenever I feel like shit, whenever I fail, there's no partner to take it out on. Not even a cohabitant to yell at; none to offer a comforting hug or a shoulder to sob on. Unpredicted prospects. The invariable, indisputable destiny of a manager owner. A lone resident, moreover. Here's me; one silly, stubborn girl of utter self-will. Far from being a pioneer. But then again, I never have anyone else to blame. And no-one else to credit, nor to steal my show. It's rough. But I try to convince myself it's worth it, in the long run. I can never exist on someone else's terms and companionship, nor can I lead an existence based on someone else's ideas. That's my choice. That's the fate I have to put my faith in. Be it my doom or my vroom or my scoop.