Member-only story
Badly hungover this morning — read my new play with a group of actors last night and we just kept talking and drinking wine and talking and drinking wine. Must have gone through four bottles between four people. I never drink that much, but I did last night; I guess there was a will to drink, buried somewhere in my psyche. It was an accident, but it wasn’t —
I wonder if alcohol is a primitive means of reseting synapses; like a forest fire in the brain — clearing away dead trees; if there isn’t some deep instinct that pushes us into getting periodically sloshed.
But right now, I don’t feel that way, I feel sluggish.
But I can feel little shoots, tiny shoots, of life underneath… pushing forward. Telling me to write.
I’ve not been too active on Medium lately —
I might have gotten bored of my own writing voice; perhaps readers have too. Writing for the internet seems sort of doomed to entropy; it seems impossible to keep energy from leaking out of your work.
Novalis’ law: when literature becomes content, it becomes subject to entropy.
