A Thing Called Writing

Photo retrieved
@ http://www1.aucegypt.edu/academic/writers/idea.jpg

There’s a strange quality about solitude that makes is appealing to writing. It’s finding yourself stripped off that coat of utter self –losses in social energy. When that energy remains unwasted, its tension translates into strands of thoughts that come together to reconcile the being. There, in the silence of social solitude, a mind churns, tosses and turns. Big crowds have that great feel of loneliness most prodigious for writing. It’s as if you’re watching a live performance in the comfort of your seat. Possibilities of quality interaction are be rare opportunities, and when they do happen, their light shines through the grim landscape of carelessness. Yeah, carelessness to everything speaking in lack of words or sounds. Deaf, mute, and blind, the city keeps on going. Dazzled, I break in a sort of dance to a music limited to my ears only. I try to freeze the little miracles sparkling in the city mud, to make sure they don’t die under the hard pace of forgetting. And when I do freeze them, I think of this delicate preservation could happily marry words. I’m hoping I can’t turn that union into a traditional marriage, because when you come to think of it, those are the ones that stand the test of time. If there’s something I despise about modern times is the mere flimsiness that makes oblivious to the human kind’s tiny treasures.

    And when the time is ripe, perhaps harvesting thoughts will occurs. It’s just a projection based on the common sense assumption that there’s some sort of universal design responsible for the development of cycles. I couldn’t think of a different turn of events, as I’m confined to patterns and cyclities that I’m still grasping while fumbling through clay words.  What will actually bring in the end, I couldn't say, for foresight hasn’t struck me yet. But there’s a chance that thoughts macerating isn’t wishful thinking and that through some unconscious process, something will surface. Anything.