In Which I Write Only Boringness

I feel like writing something. Watching words march left to right in their straight, neat, and uptight columns has a soothing effect. Non of my aspired book-plots are a whole, and thus, they are nothing but strands of ideas, hopeless to being woven into an actual story. I could edit and revise "Upper Class", but I'd rather let that tale in particular sit in the dusty dark and ferment in the data banks of this laptop for the time being. A few days ago, I though I was on to something good as far as "plot" goes. But not anymore. 

Nothing. Is. Coming. 

I've been drawing a lot. And playing lots of music. I like winter break. I like doing nothing as much as possible. You've no idea how blessedly wonderful it is to wake up in late morning and sigh, realizing you have no obligations. At all. Just a few hours to finally do all the creating and inspiration-seeking you've ever had urge to do. 

I feel like this past week has been my drain. I'm settling into my easy-going mood, and enjoying every single breath of it that I'm breathing in. 

More and more, it becomes an obvious fact that I continually bounce my "favorites" to and fro between four things. 

I like to write. I like to draw. I like music---a lot. And I like to take pictures. 

It's always one of these things, and continually a struggle to decide if I like one more than the other. 

I don't know why I'm boring you with this. It's all just a few musings from I, as I try to type myself to sleep. 

Goodnight.