Saturday, August 18, 2012

But it's so cliche...

One of these days, I really do feel, I'll start writing again. For some reason, I don't know, but I see it happening. It's there, waiting patiently for the need to arise. I don't know, maybe it'll just be the writing involved if I do indeed go back to school. I'm not at all convinced I'll actually do that, though.

 I don't really see the point, beyond just needing something to do with myself, so it seems silly or childish, somehow. I can't explain it, which probably means I'm lying to myself in some form or fashion, that or I don't feel grok the problem I face. That's usually how it washes out.

 It's too bad this is such a (relatively) dull universe. I do think I'd make a good parapsychologist in a world where that didn't automatically mean "kook". But what do I know.

 I never really liked writing, honestly, at least I don't think I did. I did get off on crafting a piece, making an argument, be it about a political issue or a musicological bit of nonsense, and to a certain extent I still do. I don't know if I was ever that in love with the idea of being a writer. I never really bought into that whole romantic ideal. My writer persona was awfully confused. But he was young, and he owned he didn't know shit.

  I'm not entirely sold on the vaporizer. Perhaps I'm using it incorrectly. I wouldn't be surprised.

 Maybe that's an idea. While I sit on this couch, night after night, and smoke my mind on weed and Internet brain candy, I could keep a window open to scribble nonsense too dense and heavy and lengthy for Twitter. Maybe a running, stream-of-consciousness type thing while I read about conspiracy cranks, misunderstand philosophy/science, and listen to MST3K on an endless loop. Review music I listen to, movies I watch, maybe comment on socio-political nuggets I pretend to pay attention to. I'd automatically have two free days, at least, so that right there means I won't have to hold myself to doing it every day.

 I wonder just where the uncomfortable feeling I have about not writing, even just gibberish like this on a daily basis. It's not exactly guilt, but it's similar. Like the feeling I have when I contemplate someone learning something about another person that'd let them, the first person, down. Not so much betrayal or knocked off a pedestal, but more like "Awww, I thought you had more to you than that." I feel it when one of the lads says something massively homophobic, and I don't know what to tell 'em. I don't know who I should feel guilty to, though, who I'm letting down in some form or fashion. I know there are people who say they're disappointed in me not writing, but that ain't none of their damn business. One could give a metaphysical answer, a question of destiny or ode to a muse, but that's just silly.

 Thing is, this is sort of fun. Random, rapid lashing nonsense and wisdom into a digital stylus, nothing but light and smoke and math, but more concrete and permanent that the heaviest block of granite but still a whisper in the wind. Whiff, wham, okay Internet, here are my thoughts and they might be here forever or someone might spill a Diet Coke and wipe out the whole deal. I sort of like that, too. Caveat: while one lauds the Internet/Blogger/Tumblr thing giving us all a voice, one recognize most of us really should shut the hell up.

 I'm going to do this on both Tumblr and Blogger. Keep it connected to Twitter, too, but not Facebook. I'm going to keep this as existential ad possible and keep out of other folks' business, but there'll be plenty of shit I don't want certain folks reading. It may evolve in one direction or it may evolve in another. Regardless, I've grown to loathe Facebook and it's use as anything but a time-killer. Besides, I might very well not write one more single word the rest of my life. For now, it's late and I should go ahead and call it a day.

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