Well, this is isn't the writing ambiance I imagined myself into after months of blog drought- tired and in between a drenching stench of unlaundered clothes, crumpled green sheets, scattered reports on the floor and twelve opened tabs of researches and journals to read.
Unlike when I was younger, my writing forces me into a trance where butterflies in red and purple hue flew above an imagined world of sunsets and shores while a grand Sonata is playing on the background. With no particular ritual, the mind or the fingertips (whichever dominates) force me into this writing trance and dictate my destiny for one hour leaving this ambivalent self into a literacy satisfaction.
For the past months, I have always imagined writing something here- in this blog full of unexplained emotions, life's realizations and memories. But, I always ended up in a blank page where the cursor hauntingly blinks as if I have lost the words and my way back to that "writing" world.
I always start strong- one, two and three paragraphs about everything and often nothing (as long as this burning passion to write is pacified). In my head, I imagined the perfect unison of thoughts and the sound of my fingers tapping on the keyboard. In my head, I have strung letters into words, words into phrases, phrases into statements, statements into paragraphs while a portion of this brain obsesses on a list of bills to pay, reports to submit, tasks to do and not to mention people to please.
But in my head as always, the weaving of words are overthrown by things adults like me should do or thoughts adults like me should think.
There is nothing special with my writing or this blog. In fact, sometimes my "adult grumpy" self would often think of putting this 8 year old blog into a permanent sleep along with its 97 memoirs. Sometimes, I want to pull the cord connecting my head and fingertips into that "writing trance" and force this introvert out of the real world and into a real conversation.
For now, before I click on the delete button and permanently erasing any traces of my frustrated literary pieces, let me write now. Let me forget all the things an adult like me should do or thoughts an adult like me should think.
Just once. Just this once.
Disclaimer: The author is not a poet or writer (though sometimes she pretends and claims to be one). No one is also restraining her to write but since the author considers herself as an "adult" and glorifies her busy schedule, she always blames herself for not having the free time to write.
