Not enough time? Not enough "inspiration"? It all sounds ridiculous, all of the lame excuses. I used to draw from the people and events around me, and that meant I was living a "literary life", I told myself. Am I living a lif(more)e like that now? I work but I don't engage myself whole self in it. Who could? And I come home to relax but now it's with my wife and I love her and I'm just content to hang out with her, so what's literary about that? My personal time is escapism - games and fantasy epics and a little weed.
So what happened to that literary life? Walking down long avenues and exploring foreign cities and having angst-ridden, half-attached romances? I had one foot out the door wherever I went, but hey - that just meant I was going places, right?
Maybe it's all the same story. That character that I made of myself- insecure but bold, a romantic who never wanted to be in love, a traveler who didn't want to travel too far past European bars and cafes... maybe that character is still around. Maybe this is still his life, his adventure. What happens when that character really does feel secure, in love, settled at home?
He'll still walk the streets at odd hours. He'll still long for those student days from time to time. He'll want to write, but he just doesn't see it, doesn't see what's so damn important about this life that he has to tell someone about it. But it is life, and it's still his adventure, and that's worth sharing. He won't make himself great or special or unique, but maybe finally he can connect with someone. After all, he has still so much(less)
Atsushi registered the soft brush of fingertips through his matted bangs, although it took a few moments for the rest of his brain to come back online. He was hurt - /everything/ hurt, to be fair - but the thing that his poor, overclocked sensory system kept coming back(more) to was the gentle hand carding through his hair.
Finally a friendly reminder hit his brain that, hey, they were in the middle of a fucking fight and maybe you should get the fuck back out there and Atsushi's eyes flew open. He immediately made to fling himself upright but that was abruptly stopped by that gentle hand turning heavy, half-covering his eyes and keeping him down. "Hey-!" was all he managed to get out before the back of his head slapped back into someone's lap.
"It's over." The hand still covered his eyes for a moment - but then slid off, a second hand joining the first and holding his head in place. Atsushi squinted up at Akutagawa, still missing a piece in this logic train. "Stay put."
Well. THAT was distinctly out of character for Akutagawa. Not the being short thing, but the ... seemingly caring about Atsushi thing.
The skin around Akutagawa's eyes was tight, drawn. He looked stressed. "I do care," he said roughly, and Atsushi wondered if he had learned how to read minds. "You're talking out loud, idiot."
"Are you okay?" Atsushi said, realizing there was a splash of blood on his face, and reaching his hand up, concerned. Akutagawa let out a bitter laugh and caught his hand.
"You got half your head blown off and you're asking me if I'm okay," Akutagawa said, amazed.
Oh. That would explain the muzziness. Atsushi frowned. "I don't want you to not be okay. I like you."(less)