Writing is an altered reality real to the one writing.
At the same time, writing is dead; something we abort. What is the truth of being bent over these keys? What hidden message am I missing? I am speaking to this amorphous entity called bloggers much like a child speaking into one of those underground tubes that carry the vibration of their voice to another part of the playground. Why come here at all; why this one-sided exchange? I could just as well stay quiet by making notations in a journal. Though once you step into the blog sphere you forget about being alone with your thoughts.
It’s like I want to write but I must chose another subject rather than the darkness that is the background of every day living; it’s like I cannot see the stars when the sky is so blackened by my thoughts; it’s like I want to write other than what I have written; it’s like these years have only been set aside so as to better prepare me to write; the craft of writing has always concerned me as well truth; if I can be faulted for anything it would be due to lies of omission; maybe that is my worst fault: what I leave out.
I have read this morning that everything we do speaks about who we are which made me consider who am I.
Even as I write this stupid question that confuses me I think I don’t have a pat answer. I could speak from habits and speak about what I would want to say while thinking what I am saying might be some semblance of truth. I have adopted a new handicap that seems to have improved my writing. I refrain from using the conjunctive “but”.
It’s really amazing what has resulted from simply abstaining.
Well, I can’t be here too long; much of the day is on the wan and there are dishes to be done.