itches.
this is one of those times that you get the itch to write something, but somehow, not remotely apart from this itch is the problem of where to write them. this problem though is not anything as simple as it was then than it is now. the world seems to have turned a million times in one second and left you wondering what just happened.
frustration may as well be your bestfriend to help you through this time. it is not the frustration of not being able to write at all (you can alway press forward on your e-mail client and there goes writing, only this time a pseudo-writing called forwarding is conceived or just scribble your name over and over again), but the frustration of having you craving to read your words and not ever wanting to hear them. you lousy speaker.
eventually, you give up and give in to the pressure of putting down some words. you scribble and doodle and fail.
and you fail terribly. your words become rudely tensed, stingy and esoterically falling off of the whole sense of your first sentence. you start composing lomographic versions of yourself in words which are uncharacteristically you. rock. island. december. touch. winter. but the itch still remains. and stays with you until you lose sleep. and crave for a bottle of beer.
so here you are again. going at it. and again, eventually...failing. your ideas beg of kundera, king, and salinger but not even scratching any of those surfaces. now, the failing turns into falling. where the thud will never be heard from where you left off.
but there's the itch. stuck on your sleeve. wringing your mind. pricking your heart.
now, scratch it.
napkins.etc.
it seems to me that the writing world, in general, has continually evolved from the use of parchments to the internet through the years and will never stop. never at one point. as in my case, my writing evolved from using elementary grade-1 paper with the alternating blue and red lines, to the tablet (1/2, 1/4, crosswise, lengthwise) paper, to yellow paper, to bond paper, to resto napkins, to walls, to my palms (literally), and to this blogspot.
as if i always have to outgrow the things in the past. like sleeping on a double-decked bed. but the truth is, it may not be the case. i only moved on, to what others has set before me.
as if the insatiable mind (and hands), cannot get itself to rest on any one medium of where to write these random rantings that it continuosly explores the options of where to write its heart's desires.
wonder of wonders.
scratching the itch now, i start to unfold this phase of writing, which is relatively new to me. writing on this page, i heed my muse to fly with me and maybe...help me scratching.
this page is a wonder. it transcends all of them papers that rot and mold and burn.
now, written history will ever be transparent and lucid...as long as the servers are up.
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