Now, there are two words I have not written in a very long time. I’ve become so consumed with proofreading others words, and with writing articles for pay that are of the editor’s choice, that I fear I’ve come dangerously close to losing my own words. I apologize for neglecting you, my tatty little diary.
Last night I realized that my editing work had stacked up to an alarming level on my desk. I poured a cup of absinthe and got to work, as I felt a compulsion to sweep my life clear of all those words I did not write. It was near dawn when I finished the last task. I fell into an exhausted sleep on my couch, and did not awaken until evening approached. I might have slept even longer, but for the chill air that roused me. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and looked out to see the Palisade covered in snow! Bela’s factory sparkled as the setting sun’s rays danced over hundreds of icicles hanging from the eaves.
I managed to get a fire started in my potbellied stove, and dressed myself warmly. After trying on every hat I own, I realized I needed something less fanciful and more practical, and so I went for a walk, enjoying the sights, poking in various shops for a warm winter hat. I finally found one I liked, and felt much more comfy with my new purchase pulled snugly onto my head. I wandered further… and heard the sounds of squeals and laughter coming from the park – an ice skating party was in progress! It was good to see my neighbors having such fun. But Ruby’s was also close by, and I found myself nipping in there for a drink, and became absorbed in watching what some people have been calling a ‘moving picture’, which told a story titled “Jane Eyre”. I purchased a calendar for charity while there, as well.
Eventually the story ended, and I returned to my loft, desiring to put up a Christmas tree, which I did. I bought it from BlakOpal, right there in my own building! It is beautiful, and delicate, and reminds me of the trees my mum would put up when I was very wee. By the time I finished decorating, the fire in the stove had died down, and I took my leave to spend a warmer night in the Seraph Building with Mael, as I normally do.
Today I hope to write more of my own tale. I feel a sense of guilt that I have not make swifter progress on that. I am not sure why I feel guilty though – do I owe it to myself to do this? Will the world stop spinning if my book does not find it’s way into reader’s hands? I am neither special, nor worthless. I am just me. Am I enough of a life to warrant a book? I suppose there’s only one way to find out!
(Her typist wishes to mention that Ceejay’s lifestyle is her own choice, and if she’s floundering financially, so be it. Ya spend your money on vices, charity and clothing, then you’ll also have to pay the piper. This is NOT a sympathy ploy for other typists to give her lindens. Try that and they will be returned to you. Yes, her lindens DO get very low, and then she has to scramble and work hard to earn more. That’s how I choose to challenge both Ceejay and myself in SL, this is how we keep things interesting. How she lives is an attempt to portray a semi-realistic life of one of our citizens of New Babbage. With luck she will continue to write her book, and also speak of her life in her diary as well.)