/lit/ - Literature

As a compromise for the fact that I have no ideas for fiction to write, I have started writing a diary. And this morning I wrote a diary entry on a party I went to the night before. I have no idea what I'm doing and feel that it's likely that its a useless endeavour asking for critique here.

The diary entry: October 23rd
The motion from only a few people to an overflowing house was, I suppose, a crescendo in flesh rather than sounds. And perhaps those ones who were intoxicated enough reduced themselves to just flesh, as the mind starts to lull, the muscles begin to control, and the body wanders at the will of primal instinct.

In a situation of upbeat drunken bustling busyness I find myself floating from one context of people to the next as I make attempts to talk and they correspond with their attempts. The minor problem arises when a person is wonderful enough for me to want to spend more time than just that polite vignette alongside them, but an ambiguous internal insecurity makes me certain that the want is not reciprocated.

Humans are awful and people are brilliant and the halfway being in between the two speaks in slurs of vowels and looks precisely in the direction of nothing. It is a person's underlying, true personality that determines their social worth at this stage.

I'd rather be liked by some people than known for anything by many, but those people with promiscuous names are surrounded by the illusion of popularity or fame; their status becomes the cause of their presence as opposed to some worthwhile merit of their presence.

"A party animal". What in the sociology of a group of people (some intoxicated, some feigning intoxication, and some envying intoxication) connotes with animal behaviour? It must be, I think, that inconsiderate lust. The lust for food and flesh and fame, perhaps. Or, the undefined lust that, having no target, acts abstractly and, doing so, reduces the luster to an animal predator of their (usually sentient) lustee.