Monday, November 04, 2013
distractions and a silent ego
They tell fashion models to make love to the camera. I suppose one who ought to write, must do the same to their laptops and such.I look at my hands splayed across the keyboard. They look aged. Must be from washing, and the sun perhaps. This calls for some lotion on these hands before I continue.
I guess that was just a convenient excuse; anything to distract from putting words on canvas in proper expression, abstract or otherwise. I have been distracted by everything. I go for the trivial and inane, and language is truncated to tweet-glish, Singlish, anything that is succinct for making an irrelevant point. Work and rest distract me from reading. When we don't read, we cannot create better things.
Maybe I have lost my ego. We write because of our ego, but I don't feel anything more than a pawn in the part of claiming my inheritance, my destiny. It seems paradoxical, to see myself as a small part in - my - destiny. Like a cog in a wheel that is still me. I am not sure where or how I should place myself to be more egotistical. Without wishing to propagate our own ego, we cease to propagate ideas and thoughts through words.
And so, I fell silent. Distracted and small, I just stopped making abstract expressions through words. I merely make sounds, "tweets" and curses under my breath. I trudge like one of a tired pack that needs to move but also has to conserve energy, so verbal intercourse ceases. It has become just about putting one leg in front of the other, watching the terrain, planning the route and rest stops.
Because the best of what I write often stems from pain, I reckon silence might be a good thing too. It means the absence of unbearable pain, the type that cannot be assuaged, that writing cannot heal but we try anyway because it hurts so badly.
Most of what occupies my mind now instead: the economics and science of managing a startup non-profit cat rescue group. I think of little else. I am inspired to this, and therefore it fills my mind. It is probably boring to most people, working on pathways to destiny. Dream-talk excites bystanders, but the journey excites only the traveller and his companions.
Thus I have nothing to inspire you to with this post. Except, that even if you feel like nothing you are experiencing is worth writing about, you are wrong. Look: I just wrote paragraphs on having nothing worth writing about. Look at your hands on the keyboard, and start there.
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