There comes a time when every writer will question.
There also comes a time when every writer feels the urge to tear up his manuscripts and watch the digits on the soft copy disintegrate, on hindsight.
There comes a time when we'll click our tongues, purse our lips and assess the risks because there is a positive correlation between creativity in writers and mental disorders.
Then the writer goes back to writing.
Darling, aren't we all slaves to the art. Or some fanciful scheme should do.
Blogs are primarily for vocalising behind a screen to an audience that you cannot see, and for talking to oneself. Yabber jabber doo, we sure know how to talk.
Even mere ramblings are subjected to judgement. This is the world I have let you into, the inside of my head, and I assure you there is no party going on in there. From questioning myself as a writer, to questioning myself as a person. Days on a high lead to votes of confidence, while normal days lead to much pondering and realism in a wafer-thin wisp of surrealism. The stuff of life.
We'll never be satisfied. What I have over a blank slate now does not even touch the tip of the iceberg. Ladies and gents, we've got a long way down to the bottom of the Atlantic.
Maybe not tonight. How is it possible that there can be so much information contained in a head's width? How is it possible that there can be more information that you are aware of contained in the span of a neuron?
That, my friend, is to show you that God has a penchant for bytes in bits. If we were made in His image, then that explains the existence of USB flash drives.
How many dark eye rings in exchange for satisfaction that never will be?
It is all nothing but a dream-like state. Or maybe I'm just sleepy.
Sleep, before I stir up more demons and people tapping their feet.
