Frustration grips me in an iron fist. It is cold, hard and so completely and utterly stifling. My mind is blank. A horrible definitely expected blank. Stubborn as it is, I dared to hope that my mind would work when I most fervently desired it to do so. But it did not. The burning wishes to rip my hair out, to drag my nails down my face, to scream, threaten to overwhelm me as I sit in front of this laptop; its screen alight with a totally blank word document; its speaker belting out a piece of ever-changing music. Soft to loud, high to low, rock to classic; a cacophony of sounds that both calm and irritate my fevered brain.
Time is lessening with every passing breath I take; my eyes begin to burn with tiredness. How cruel of my mind. I hold it in abhorrence at this moment. Of utmost abhorrence, for how can I write if my mind refuses to acknowledge its holder's existence?
The sky screams another deafening chorus of bass, rain pelts on my home's roof as if thousand-foot soldiers were marching to capture that stupid girl who procrastinated for all her life's worth even when she knew she had to do it soon. I do not pity her for she would deserve to be executed at the dreaded guillotine and also because that girl is none other than myself. It is a well-known lesson that has refused to teach me anything and yet leaves me reeling in frustration and anger: I must not procrastinate. Charles Dickens himself called procrastination the "thief of time." But I do not hold a penchant for Charles Dickens in reality.
It is impossible to escape this predicament I have fallen into unscathed. The decadent, nefarious nature of time is well known I hope. My petulant movements result in knowing looks from my family. Time beguiles, coerces, and leaves one gullible. Time pretends to last, to slow down until you realize it as a mere façade. By then it will be too late and you would have fallen into a dilemma even the longest of ropes would have trouble reaching into.
My mind awakes, its love for words is rekindled by a certain unfamiliar, strange, rare and yet, marvelous quotation: "Do you think God stays in heaven because he too, lives in fear of what he has created?" This wonderful, most extravagant messiah has brought my rotted, meager mind back to its lively, abundant nature.
A new zest in me, my fingers fly across the keyboard, drawing, drinking, indulging in all the inspiration around me. I simply bask in it. I write about how the creator feared what he created. Of how his love turned to abhorrence. I write and I write, grateful and hopeful. My characters are made of me, I am their god, I control. I am in control, in balance, and at perfect ease as I realize my existence as a writer. I must write because as Franz Kafka said: "A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity."
YOU ARE READING
Bouts Of Writing
RandomThis is not a book, it has no plot. The only purpose it serves is as a space that allows me to pick out my unfiltered, and wholly random, thoughts. Put said thoughts in order and release them in a flurry of words. So if you read it, expect, in short...
