"And now," he proclaimed in a loud voice, "the time hath cometh! It is time for ...
total fucking isolation!
"That's right," he continued after the first gasp of awe had swept through the crowd. "There will be no distractions! No interpersonal interaction! No contact with the outside world! Just the sweet, musky air that only closed shutters, lackluster hygiene and a steady diet of pizza and cheap supermarket cola can provide. Yes, say with me again! Total ... fucking ..."
Isolation. That's my plan for the future. That's what I'm looking forward to. It's going to be great. Too much time has been spent with empty socialising and excessive alcoholic consumption. Not enough time has been spent building the mind or doing the sort of anti-social activities from fond times past.
I get to play the games I've always wanted to play, but never had the time. I'll be able to complete the stack of mid/late 90's adventure games that my friend left me over a year ago that I never got around to. The Feeble Files, Mystery of the Druids, Ripper, Stupid Invaders. All of which will be accompanied by happy reunions with the Space Quest series, Beneath a Steel Sky, Harvester and the Tex Murphy games, whom I've wanted to replay for a long time as well.
I get to make the music I've been claiming I'd get around to do, instead of just talking about it. I've had big plans for the sort of projects I wanted to pull through - well, now's the time. Just me, my MIDI keyboard, my tracker, my sequencer. I'd invite musically inclined friends over to complete the thing by adding guitar tracks and such, but it'll have to wait until my period of isolation is over. And to think, I'll have the time to properly get my imagination straight - make the sort of music that I like and used to do in the past. It won't be pleasant to other people, but that's fine, because no one else is going to hear it.
I get to write the things I've wanted to write for a long time. Granted, they won't be literary masterpieces, but that's fine, because no one else will be reading them. Little silly sci fi short stories; pointless diatribes on some topic that seems wholly inconsequential; little scraps of disjointed stream-of-consciousness writings. The sort I always tell myself I'll get around to, but never have.
I get to totally turn my daily rhythm upside down. I'll be playing games and doing music 'till 4 in the morning, and only when the first sunbeams try to filter through my closed shutters will I start allowing the notion of maybe getting a few (read: twelve) hours of shut-eye some merit. That is, after I finish this coke. *gulp*
Hell, if I had any books on my shelf I hadn't read yet, I'd probably get around to that, too.
It'll probably only last a couple days. But it'll be a great couple days. It'll give my mind a chance to sort itself out; to submerge itself in the sort of things that used to enrich it. Imagination, creative thinking. The things that, as of late, have been sadly reduced to empty promises.
As I write this, I'm struck with the most insidious abdominal pain. Can someone tell me why having one glass of Coke for breakfast - or any liquid or solid nutrient, for that matter - will promptly send my digestive system on a mad and uncontrollable bender of pain? It only happens if I eat or drink something right after getting out of bed - waiting 'till the middle of the day entails no problems. Ah. Ow.