Of My Moleskine Notebook

I feel dry. I can’t help but write such obscenely disastrous posts which echo the rants of every other blog (of every other adolescent) when I feel so completely turgid and stiff.

I was just looking through some of the sketches of prose I have typed out about nearly six months ago, and I can without a doubt point out from reading them; that I have gone completely dry.

Frankly, I believe the reason to this is my complete complacency and ambivalence to being indifferent in my emotions.

I’ve not had a fleeting emotion for quite a long time, unless you can call heated frustration; fleeting. While this lack of infatuation or fleeting giggles or butterfly in the stomach crap calls for a hurrah, it certainly isn’t doing any good for my writing.

Pathetic as it sounds, it really does seem to work better when you have that concept to let your words vie for. I believe this is not due proportionately to how much you feel for that person, but how much the idea of that noble concept of emotion and sacrifice and sharing seems. I sometimes believe that we are not attracted to being secured by someone, but merely attracted to the idea that being secured by someone leads to something holistic which will make us complete.

And that alone is enough to give you that walk on water feeling, that fragile-ness and tacit way of seeping emotion through your words. When completely infatuated with someone, your prose tends to echo reasons for others; when you are bitter and skeptical and alone; everything turns selfish.

Don’t get me wrong, I am happy with my state of having nothing to really feel for, though my despondence in writing really makes me feel like a cow.

I feel like a selfish cow who might as well die a virgin spinster with forty cats who wishes to her death bed to win the Booker Prize with a rotting manuscript that stinks of cats piss.

No, not really, I don’t feel like that. But it sure does have a nice ring to it. And hey, I actually wrote a post without deleting it! Hope that was enough to entertain you; though I’m sorry I can’t make it up for my absence.

The mind is a malleable piece of dough that is constantly being shaped by everything around it. As we all age into adulthood, bits and clumps of that play-doh-like structure hardens to form itself principles and morals that will soon become the fundamental building blocks of one’s ethics. One without these hardened clumps and bits will prove to be loose and lost. Those whose bits and clumps which have hardened and which change is constantly tried to be implemented onto, will break off and result them to get lost too.

Yet no one suffers more than the skeptic. The skeptic who builds a wall of defence around her own vulnerable self only to exit it with the ideas she had unwillingly wrapped around herself to make it all seem better.

Weak is the skeptic who cannot write. Who cannot feel. Who can’t flailingly accept things as others; most, would. Turgid is the skeptic; for her skeptical principles push her in the end to judge others. Because she is too ashamed to admit she is weak.

I am the skeptic, and my demons are eating me within.