Sometimes life shits on your heart. 

what keeps me creating?

I cannot twiddle my thumbs. I cannot be ‘bored’. on days like these I could lay in bed and sleep forever, sure. the ‘forever’ in dreams; perhaps an hour to someone in the world of awake. but no matter how much I despise living in that world, I do. I have to. and so I find myself disconnected but creating. no matter what’s going on I have to make things. as if it’s a distraction; eyes away from others’ while I take in what’s around me and look down to see the project in my hands coming to ‘life’.

whether it’s words or sounds or pictures or food or sticking random crap together to make some kind of sculpture. I don’t know what it is, but i have to. put things in my hands and I’ll turn it all into ‘something’ - something more than the sum of its parts. and I like that. I enjoy that. but is that enough? it’s as if by making these things I’m forming a potential. a potential for what? for change? a change in my mood for a while, perhaps. a potential for change in someone else’s day. I like the thought of that. I like that a lot. but it’s an afterthought. what is it of my hands, of my mind, that puts all else aside so I can create?

all these things will be thrown when I’m gone. they’re only material after all. but will they make that much difference having come to life? that idea has certainly driven me at various points.. to continue. to pursue. but I’m talking about the layer peeled wiped away bare naked pure urge of it. it’s a compulsion. perhaps the pure motion of making is just how I, myself am made. but the need, the urge within to make these things more… that is something else entirely. and it’s something that keeps me here. at least I know that much.

So here is what I have been mulling on with all this Morrigan-love and Orlesian speculation -
 
That Leliana knows Morrigan is in Orlais before anyone else. She feels the subtle change in the air - the ripple of electricty from old magic, the way the ground trembles with each footfall of the swamp witch. She sees her first from a distance (of course) and smiles to herself at the perfectly arranged hair, the deliberate and coy display of skin, the selection of gold and jewels meant to accentuate an already breathtaking beauty.
 
But she doesn’t announce herself to the witch. Most likely, Morrigan is aware she is being watched, is tense with expectation over their inevitable “reunion.” Instead, Leliana employes all her tricks, conducts the proper manipulations, to ensure that there is no knife lying in wait for her one-time traveling companion. After all, Morrigan doesn’t know the Game. It’s an easy thing to toy with lusts, to coerce, to have one’s tongue drip with the honey of lies, but managing the politics behind each action of the coy men and women of the court is another thing entirely. The witch doesn’t know how to wind her way through those brambles.
 
And while she doesn’t know what the she has planned, or if her intent is ill, Leliana will do what she can to keep Morrigan alive, to keep her within sight. And if it’s malevolence the witch seeks, then Leliana will make it her own sworn duty to bring her down - bow against spell, bard against mage, heart against heart. It wouldn’t be the first loved one that Leliana would have to kill. It wouldn’t be the last. But she would owe it to the Warden, to Morrigan, and to herself, to make the blow clean and swift, even if the regret of it may undo her.

“Whoa.. lots of sex stuff lately.”