In a word, dissatisfaction. A vague sort of unease, knowing that I've fallen into something that varies between a groove and a rut. Came to light watching the filmmaking guys this morning, feeling both where I belonged and out of place at the same time. It was familiar, like finding family across the ocean in some small village outside of Napoli, but being something of an outsider at the same time.
And I think I should be doing this, and why am I not doing this, and the answer comes back to time and money, the Big Broken Box™ having eaten both and still ravenous for more. It is a domicilious version of the vampire of lore, feeding off time and energy, but able to be sated piece by piece.
So for now I focus on the house, taking it to the next level of completion, while the need for creative appeasement lies dormant, festering, shivering in a nightmare haze of unconscious dreaming, waiting to be awakened in a full-bore orgy of fear and suspense, craving the tangy taste of adrenaline and the faint aroma of desperation. Oh, it will come: my darlings, my pretties, the creatures that live in the borders of your imagination are longing to play in the fields of darkness.
We will play. Oh yes, we will play. Be patient my children.