Hello dearest readers!
Sorry it’s been a while. I haven’t really had anything to write about lately, so I decided that I would rather keep my lacklustre words to myself than to spew random nonsense just to placate the masses. And by masses I mean the few people who actually read this blog (hi incoming students, random friends, people who see the sticker on my laptop, and my parents).
Lately, I’ve just been revelling in the reverie of my thoughts. The summer is always a time for revelation (and alliteration) and I like to spend some time alone in the swirling mass of musings in my mind. I usually have no objections if this alone time is accompanied with a nice glass of white wine and some movie soundtracks for background music. As I write this, I’m listening to the love theme from Star Wars Episode II. It is truly quite wondrous. Possibly the only wondrous thing from the whole movie (other than Natalie Portman; she’s a total babe).
Recently, I’ve been reading some classic novels. They range from Sense and Sensibility to Dracula, from Dickens to Atwood. A plethora of poems have been running through my mind, ensnaring my senses and reopening my eyes to the seductive power of words. I’ve been greedily gulping down poems by Blake, rejuvenating my sense of romance with Keats, finding my love of simplicity with Rimbaud, and sinking into the sweetness of Neruda.
I never stop talking, but I never talk about things that matter. Words flow from my mouth like a river of remarks, slowly eroding away at the base of my consciousness and the edges of my thought. I find that the more I speak, the less I say. Writing is easy for me; I can compose and erase and rewrite, and the words come to me like they are destined to be penned. Speaking is a different kind of poetry, one where you only get a single chance to make it perfect and precise. When you’re speaking, inner soliloquies are irrelevant and unheard, and the tongue is a rambling and rambunctious destroyer of implication in order to favour enunciation. Your lips move in a dance of elocution and your teeth are gleaming white gates that open and close at your will.
I’m not even sure what I’m writing anymore. The words are rushing from my fingers, implanting themselves on the screen in front of me, demanding to be written into the sentences and phrases and paragraphs which make up eternity. Maybe I keep writing because I feel like my spoken words are woefully inadequate; maybe I keep writing because it helps me perceive myself as less of an incompetent human being.
Maybe I just write because I love the feel of words on my fingers and terminologies on my tongue and the versification of the voluminous power of words.
Or maybe I write just to escape the existentialism of my insipid existence.