Damn.

I keep trying to write something. Any damned thing. After last week’s flurry of passion and anger, I just can’t seem to find it.

I have entries started – one on books I’m reading or have recently read, one on halloween and how it’s changed since I was a kid, and another goofing on the stupid “self-review” process corporations put us through in the yearly performance review cycle. I even have one in the back of my skull about prog rock, about going back to find the turds-and-treasure of music I used to listen to.

I can’t seem to get through any of them though.

I only seem to be motivated by two things right now; anger, and sex. I’m tired of writing angry tirades about politics, I’m already bored with that until I can figure a target. And while I can, in theory, re-direct anger into sex, I can’t seem to get motivated by writing it. I don’t want to talk about sex right now, I just want to have it.

I can easily visualize the things I’d like to be doing. The spankings I could be giving, the ass-pounding sweat-soaked fucking I could be giving someone. The bites and scratches I’d like to get and give. The permanent marks I’d like to leave behind.

Yeah, that wakes me from my stupor. But I try to write it down, describe it, and… It’s gone. Not the wants and desires and passions, those are so very still here. But any desire to write it goes away, I’m non-verbal and just thinking through red haze.

It’s a bit frustrating. There’s good stuff in my head, I could be doing something creative. The cloud of love and rage and sex and violence could yield something interesting. But all I can find is a loud buzzing and grinding noise and no words.

I need to find something to do with this energy. It’s a dark scary sort of energy. I need to make it useful.