Thursday, October 9, 2008

I write...

My language isn’t poetic or impressionable, my grammar isn’t the best, and my diction passable. I don’t even know what I want to write about. I haven’t written anything worthwhile in years. I’m still trying to understand MY objective of MY being.
I have no quirky tale up my sleeve, no brainwave, no theory….

So where does this quixotic aspiration come from…

I love the idea, the perception of writing. The concept of authors and writers.
I’ve read so many books, numerous stories and tales, each one presents such exclusive perceptions and thoughts, that it’s overwhelming to know that so many ideas, so many expressions of feeling exists on this planet.
Elation, ecstasy, jubilation, euphoria, delight… the thesaurus has like 20 synonyms for plain simple happiness…. And scores more for sadness… and it is remarkable how various authors yarn tales out of these words.

Writing is indeed beautiful; it enables a person to lament; celebrate, exult, ponder, validate, foment, or simply express…

So why do I find it so difficult to write, to express, to record.
I think I’m trying to necessitate writing. Dictate my whims and fancies (the irony is not lost on me). Why am I trying so hard to make sense, why didn’t Harry Potter or Kira Arganouva or Pip ever occur to me? I think I’m trying so hard to emulate an inspiration, that I fail to realise that one cannot do so…..

There is the awareness, the realisation, the desire …. But no inspiration.

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