My Thoughts On Writing
I, again, have not written anything in a while. I’ve forgotten how it feels when permanent ink touches silky paper, or how thoughts flow from a membrane in my brain. I’ve even forgotten how it hurts when I write for long periods of time, nor do I remember how my handwriting fails consistency when I need to slide the paper up for more space.
I am doubtful of how my letter, my essay, my phenomenology would read when time comes when I stumble on this sheet of paper. I know in my heart that after finishing this literature, I will throw this bind of papers in a place I will forget yet again.
As I try to finish this essay, I start to remember how it feels when I stumble in a state of blankness, an emptiness in the midst of this flow. Maybe, I can compare my thoughts to a fish. As a fish tries to swim in the current of the river, it starts to slow down, probably to breathe, and proceeds to the opposite direction for reasons it does not know.
In totality, my handwritten works are garbage – with its spelling and punctuation, its idiocies are well-abound. There are words in this literature that I do not know, or are ideas I am not well-acquainted with. Though this may be the case, I continue to march on, not even looking back to the bloody war-zone I’ve established.