Linked

I hate goodbyes.

Foreboding

Alchemy

analyse...

Obscured By Clouds

So let me in from the cold
Turn my lead into gold
'Cause there's a chill wind blowing in my soul
And I think I'm growing old.

(Wot's... Uh The Deal by Pink Floyd)

Catharsis

Stained

Like Spinning Plates...

I've been struggling with acute writer's block for ages now. Absolute ages. Years? Heck, have I ever been able to write without a struggle? Well, yes, possibly in school, writing essays and stories for dour examiners who just couldn't be bothered. There was something almost painfully joyous in being able to write stuff that you thought was great. The thing is, I read that old stuff now, and discover that none of it is particularly spectacular, by any means, but nothing can take away from the fact that once, back then, it made me unabashedly happy. I miss that complete lack of inhibition, that pervasive, intrinsic sense of self-belief.

But about the writer's block. I was to write this travelogue thingummie on Italy (which has been almost entirely whittled down to being about Rome now) for Dee, and initially it was all I could do to keep from prancing about with foolish mirth at being given the opportunity to let my creative juices flow. And flow they did, for exactly one day. Gushed. I spewed out 358 words in one sitting, feeling and tasting every word as it shot out from my brain and into my fingers and onto the keys and to the screen. Such satisfaction! Such a sense of exhilaration! Such a frickin' high! Such an ego trip!

And then, everything just evaporated. I close my eyes now and attempt to recapture all those elusive thoughts scrambling about in my brain, try to cling on to memories of experiences that I can still feel but just can't translate into words and things. Sentences. Pretty sentences. It just doesn't work. Everything is just so... so... stubbornly undefinable. So completely sensory, so abstract, so... so... non-literary! Gah! I try and try and shut my eyes tightly over and over and almost weep with the effort and nothing comes out. Not one word. And if I make myself write something, just anything, it's tripe, and I'm disgusted.

Even this blog. I've taken to reading other people's blogs a bit, just a few random bits and sentences, just to see how people go about this whole exercise in writing. Most blogs I've glanced at are friends' friends' friends' friends' (you get the picture) blogs, and most of the stuff there is the usual day-to-day I-did-this-and-I-thought-that. But for me, even trying to write something as straightforward as that has become a uphill task. So uphill, that I'm deeply in awe of all those who maintain blogs, put words in them and everything, day after day, without that sense of asphyxiation I feel when I think about putting up stuff for the "public eye". I'm clearly potty.

You might say, "Hey!" You'll say "hey", and you'll follow that up with a um-why-are-you-complaining-about-writing-by-rambling-on-for-400- odd-words, and that's exactly my point. Four hundred words of no consequence. I'm completely eloquent while describing my inadequacies... it seems to be the only thing I can spout without curling up in verbal agony.

No, the thing is, ultimately, that the problem lies with you. You, as in, the "collective" you. I find it impossible to write for plurals, because I'm a different person with everyone I know. And so, when it comes to writing for a common denominator, I never know which "me" to be, what tone to adopt, what style or language or mood to use, whether to be grave, or hilarious, or pensive, or contemplative, or practical, or silly. Arrghh... I don't say it right, or clearly enough... damn this writer's block! But somewhere, in this ridiculously incoherent and long post is the crux of the matter, buried under reams of garbage.

Yes indeed, I have, several times even, been told that everyone is, in fact, like that. Different with different people, that is. And that I should stop pretending like that is the greatest tragedy of my life. But therein, still, lies my ultimate excuse. That this "different-being" is what makes my inhibitions with writing so substantial, and my handicap with prose so... insurmountable.

Afterglow

12 hours on...

Mercurial

4:00 p.m.

I'd tell all my friends but they'd never believe me

They'd think that I'd finally lost it completely

I'd show them the stars and the meaning of life they'd shut me awayBut I'll be all right, all right

I'm all right, all right
6:30 p.m.
6:45 p.m.
7:00 p.m.

7:15 p.m.

Sometimes, I think I'll just burst.

The sleep of no dreaming

Have never mastered that. Don't think I ever will. Even tiny catnaps will see my spent eyes flitting about urgently under my harried eyelids, trying to seek out all the little fragments of the vast dreamscape that drench every pore of my slumbering mind.

Hmm. I should win a prize in indiscriminate adjective-stuffing.

But (nope, me not done yet! *eeeevul laugh*) I absolutely love the fact that I dream so much, so relentlessly. And remember most of them. Flying dreams, falling dreams, swimming dreams. The most recurrent one is of the ocean, with me bobbing about in it, gently moving up and down with the swell. And it's never terror I feel, just a tremor of surreal tranquility. And complete silence.

Well, for me at least. Apparently, I snore.

Ah well. More clouds.
*slurp*