It is therapeutic. What? A free write. Of course.
Ha! Stumped you with the title huh? Made you click on the post thinking it is not a rant.
In my defense.
I spend days and nights working on emails and campaigns and initiatives and office and when Sunday night hits home I am back to where I started. A free write. In my defense I tried. Writing a post on being a control freak. We might know how that turned out one of these days.
It puts me in some sort of trance. The idea that I can speak. That I can say exactly what is on my mind. Well not exactly. We wouldn’t want that no, will we?
But still, what am I thinking? Why I hate saying a word or even thinking one on 16 December. The girl. The bus.
Takes a walk around the house and comes back. Sits.
I cannot write about it. I simply cannot. No, not even think.
Takes another walk.
What am I thinking?
I need to buy a new diary, new shoes for work. A dress for new years? A phone! Desperately need one.
Only? I am relatively quiet in my head today it seems.
Maybe I should backspace it all and write that post on control freak. How long will I continue this charade?
Dumb Charades. Called life.
Stay away from complicated ideas. Tells to head and sits back. Watches the blank screen. Why blank? Have I written anything substantial so far?
The silence. Sound of nothing in the house. I miss it. If I were living in hills I might have more writing accomplished.
If writers waited for better moods to strike them, there would be no writing accomplished.
I have this written in my diary. Time to frame it. I need this. More often to strike home than the bad moods themselves.
Maybe people are situations and situations are people.
3.14 is the value of pi.
Just saying. No relevance as such.
Pi. Circle. In circles. Me moving. You moving.
Okay next few lines had to be backspaced. They were…what can I say.. a little too honest maybe?
Pathological liar. I saw an episode of Castle on TV tonight around the idea. Pathological liar.
Are all writers nothing but a creative case of pathological liar syndrome?
In one word? Yes.
How else do you think we accomplish so much writing? By documenting our everyday bread and butter lives? Maybe. But in that too there are lies. One we tell ourselves to carry on each day.
Honest confessions have flowery words. Lies come in colors. Some of them white.
It isn’t easy. Being a writer. It brings out sides to you. One you didn’t know existed. You may be an introvert in real life but a wild cat on paper or the other way round.
Do you write?
Really? What’s your thing?
Connecting it with Write Tribe’s #MondayMusings
P.S I had ranted on my blog about the 16 December when it had happened. In case you want to read, link is below: