where conflict doesn't arise and i'm lost for words

is it so terrible that my illustrious and prolific creativity feeds solely off of conflict? i can't write unless i'm in the throws of a relationship that, if all is hypothetically going well, is unlike anything i've been in before; or, if my life is completely devoid of conflict.

when things are simple and laid out quite clearly, nothing prompts me to question, and thus there is no need building up inside of me that screams in ink. even now i'm having trouble writing about how i'm having trouble writing. irony? i don't know. but, i continue.

tonight was the first of two performances of midsummer night's dream, and it went amazingly.

everything is just ridiculous, when you think about it. life is so weighed down with nothing [i know what kundera meant in regards to the unbearable lightness of being] that it's a surprise by now we haven't all sprouted wings and flown straight into the sun.

i don't know where that came from. generally i don't know where anything i say or do comes from. i'll come up with some idea or poem and look back on it and (from time to time) say "my what genius!", not necesarily in an arrogant or self-satisfying way, but more so in simple awe that i and i alone produced something, anything, even remarkably noteworthy. for instance, this crazy idea/way i came up with to ask ms. jamba to prom (i sincerely hope she's not reading this. it would really spoil everything. and if she is). i won't go into detail. but i'm just surprised i came up with it. i didn't think i'd come up with anything even resembling cute or clever, and that i'd have to go with the average and embarassing straight up face to face question.

i'm falling asleep writing this.

on a note.
i've always thought having a journal or whatnot is a bit contrived, and reading it is terribly counterproductive. read something published.