Yes, I am blogging again.
I'm not really a true blue writer. I don't have dreams of writing professionally or commercially. But I do enjoy writing from time to time. I get moments when the thoughts inside my head simply have to be translated into words, into phrases or stanzas, into sentences, paragraphs, chapters. Sometimes it seems that my brain wants to spit out something, and it knows that I am not a good talker (*cough* terrible actually *cough). So it finds another output channel, which is writing (really it's typing cause It's been a while since I last held a pen to write long paragraphs)
And even though I write occasionally, I can't say I'm an exceptionally good writer. It's just, my mind translates its ideas into words. Sometimes the words don't even make sense. Like, there's no glue to hold the ideas together. But what the hey, it wasn't meant to be understood by those who can't. So for those who read, and understand what I mean, congratulations, and thanks for taking the time to read my words, for those who cant, it's perfectly all right, even I don't understand what I'm writing from time to time.
All that shit i just typed? It was all meant to lead to the fact that I haven't written in such a long time. Bleh, okay fine, I update this journal sometimes about stuff that goes on in my life. What I meant was that I haven't had an interesting idea for a storyline or even an article in sooo long. The last interesting one I can remember was a short story about the Undead, where i was able to write an outline of the story, and several paragraphs but never got to polish the story. My heart just wasn't in it anymore, even though when I first got that idea; the sagging skin, glassy eyes, unbearable stench, and slow slur of the Undead was as clear as day in my head. But now, it's just all feels like some foggy illusions of the distant past. My passion for writing has died.
Which can't be good, can it? I may be the first non-writer to have non-writer's block. What the hell happened to creativity? Whatever happened to inspiration? Years ago, inspiration came from even the most simple things, like a stain on the carpet that is sort-of shaped like a witch with a wart on her nose if you squint your eyes just a teensy bit and tilt your head at a certain angle. Lately, when I see a stain, my eyes just fade into dull gray and I just think, "Oh, that needs to be washed." Eeeeyuck, how boring is that? Have I become too jaded? Where is that little girl who used to dream of one-eyed dragons and rainbow-maned unicorns and fluffy little balls of koosh in electric pink and candy yellow? Where is that girl who used to grin in amazement at the sunset when the sky turned into a shade of cotton candy pink or when it turned into that specatular mix of midnight blue and happy orange. Where is she that waited for the full moon to come to simply stare at the clear and perfectly rounded white against a backdrop of night grey sprinkled with stars that winked merrily? Where is she that tirelessly mixed oil crayons to get the perfect shade of lavander just to color the unicorn's horn?
Where is she? Is she being pushed back by the exceptionally strong tandem of sarcasm and cynicism? Is she still fighting for survival? Or has she died completely, forgotten and decaying? ><