I'm supposed to have written a script by now. Actually, it's late. I should be holding 100 pages of self-inspired creative flow in my hands to pass along to ScriptFrenzy. The truth is, I have eight... Eight pages of what could be something cool but I was too distracted by my stupid self that I didn't complete it. Don't even really have a title yet; just some flat characters that were beginning a beautiful relationship with my gray matter.
Maybe the mingling wasn't going well... That's at least what I'm telling myself anyway.
Maybe I can't complete it because I'm not sure what the hell I have to say. Or what some made up character that is really just a loose version of myself has to either. The thing is, I have hope for these people. I think somewhere along the way, they will get a chance to come out screaming. I wanna come out screaming. Or do I? T.S. Eliot says that it's not with a bang but a whimper. I think I get it now. All this time I thought it was supposed to be making some kind of harmonious racket. Turns out, all you need is a whisper. Lips pursed, tickling an ear.
When did subtlety get so unpopular?
I forget that the smallest things are often the best... well... not always.