Write write write write write write write; why can’t I just write something? All I want to do is write. It’s not like I don’t have anything to write about. I mean, my best friend just told me my life should be a reality show what with what goes on on a daily basis. I just; it all feels so trivial.
I think someone told me—or rather I read in a book or on a blog or heard on television or the radio or some other vague impersonal source—that if you can’t think of anything to do, do anything. And I fully admit to the fact that this was probably a criminal case of butchering a wildly philosophical and/or deeply meaningful statement by someone far more philosophical and meaningful than I, but I think it gets the main point across. So here I am, writing.
And maybe I’m getting somewhere, too. I feel things opening up, crawling out of their life-induced boxes and stretching their arms and coming back to life. I’m starting to feel more like myself and less like a robot, bleep-blooping through the tragic monotony of everyday life. Suddenly, I am human again; there is a person hibernating deep inside of these too-high fiberglass walls.
And maybe that was all I needed: not to hastily compose a philosophical and/or meaningful piece of writing, but to rediscover and arouse the sleeping dragon inside of me—to reclaim its existence.
I feel better.
realidream 