I don't know what made me remember my blog today. I opened it and noticed that tomorrow will be exactly one year since I have posted. I think I love writing because I feel that that I need to express myself. But when have I been writing? The blog shows I have been neglecting it for far too long. Sorry for the, too often, usage of "I". I cant help it since I am talking about myself here. There we go again. Never mind.
Well there is this need to put on paper, document if necessary, what is churned inside the head and the heart; which are linked by a thin but unbreakable thread (of whatever), emotions perhaps, knowing that I am more of an emotional being.
But I hardly write. I get this feeling, often, that I need to let everything out - the good and the bad- from my system in a more appropriate and creative way. I feel the need to write but there is no subject, I feel the need to paint but what do I paint? and I feel the need to sing but I croak midway. I look into the mirror and see myself. Nothing else.
Do I expect the image to talk back to me or carry on singing where I left, as if she could sing and not I? Do I expect my face to contort or roar or just grin like an evil witch?
Maybe I wait, wait for creativity to come crashing from the heavens or erupt from the depths of the earth. Maybe I find the reason why I wonder why. Maybe a small patch of garden with a bunch of flowers will ease my soul. Maybe the spring shower will wash away this feeling of nothingness. Maybe.
I will step out on the street and get lost among people, noise and dust. Walk on like everyone does, talk when required, smile to acquaintances passing by, and get startled if a vehicle honks too suddenly. Just be a person, react and stop wondering why.
Well there is this need to put on paper, document if necessary, what is churned inside the head and the heart; which are linked by a thin but unbreakable thread (of whatever), emotions perhaps, knowing that I am more of an emotional being.
But I hardly write. I get this feeling, often, that I need to let everything out - the good and the bad- from my system in a more appropriate and creative way. I feel the need to write but there is no subject, I feel the need to paint but what do I paint? and I feel the need to sing but I croak midway. I look into the mirror and see myself. Nothing else.
Do I expect the image to talk back to me or carry on singing where I left, as if she could sing and not I? Do I expect my face to contort or roar or just grin like an evil witch?
Maybe I wait, wait for creativity to come crashing from the heavens or erupt from the depths of the earth. Maybe I find the reason why I wonder why. Maybe a small patch of garden with a bunch of flowers will ease my soul. Maybe the spring shower will wash away this feeling of nothingness. Maybe.
I will step out on the street and get lost among people, noise and dust. Walk on like everyone does, talk when required, smile to acquaintances passing by, and get startled if a vehicle honks too suddenly. Just be a person, react and stop wondering why.
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