Muddled

[rejectomorph]

Something I read unleashed a pack of memories. Not just my personal memories, but memories of hearing other people's memories, and all of them are jostling and barking and baying at the moon, and I can't get them to behave. I have long since ceased to believe that this stuff that comes into my head has any importance. Still, I have the habit of trying to organize my thoughts and look for some meaning in them. When the habit smacks into the lack of belief, I become quite frustrated and grumpy. (Wow. This is coming dangerously close to that sort of personal revelation which my journal is justifiably famous for not having.) I keep thinking there must be a novel (long my personal equivalent of the pony) in there! Well, there's probably the raw material, but I think I've learned by now that I'm not one of those who can turn it into a finished, readable work. The truth is that I have a very short attention span. Now my brain is full of barking, and all I want is the peace and quiet I need to get back to my innocuous little bits of word jewelery. I can't find it. Crap. Crap crap crap!