I Just Want to Read and Write (2)

Many a time I think I should hasten to deposit my narratives here. A bus might hit me tomorrow I want to make sure at least two-thirds of my life story in cohesion with the contents of my mind has already been unloaded; as proof that someone like me lugging a few bohemian sentiments once walked on this planet.

An arcadian repository of my experiences, perspectives, impressions is everything I intend to leave behind. That’s the reason I’ve put links connecting all my other blogs in case a future reader, if there’ll ever be one, gets wrapped up in my wholeness — my shallowness, silliness, oddity, and tiny misdemeanors. All that radiates out of my pages is all that comprises me. My unholy meditations and dusky history were barely cloaked. My intellect which is nothing to write home about can be easily detected. My looks hardly embodying that of Esmeralda are for everyone to see.

This writer has no delusion to become a total pro or a celebrated one. My imagination admittedly isn’t fecund. Vapors from within that might precipitate creative tales are non-existent. My mediocrity allows me to experiment and blunder repeatedly. Writing rules don’t apply much therefore. My incomprehensions have provided no terms to work against said freedoms.

So I’m wont to share my most favorite writing advice and this one I’ve yet to follow (Pardon me, I don’t know who dispensed it):

The most original modern authors are not so because they advance what is new but simply because they know how to put what they have to say, as if it had never been said before.

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Intermittently I miss some of the bloggers I have loved from way back. But I’m reminded of my discomfort across the connotation most were endowed with the right amount of astuteness to decode my very core.

I squirm not so much for the pitiful endeavour on my part to write poetry (forgive my penchant to be venturesome) as for the fondness I fostered around those ex-Romeos. Nah, no way could I have felt that way toward such a prick. Although the inspiration that had been afforded me was worth it. I guess. Still, the mark of shame has made me want to occasionally sob over my instant noodles at breakfast time.

The politics of “I read you, you read me” repels me. I confess to having developed certain conceptions for blogs that have supposedly amassed scores of viewers. The writings are often generic and those scribblers are typically the ones who click Follow and Like recklessly. That might explain why there hasn’t been a resident in my Reader for ages. Manual encoding of the name is how I drop by a site. And personal blogs touching more on the writer’s chronicles or feelings and beliefs are the stuff which catch my interest.

What’s my point really? Five years on WordPress has demonstrated the truth of my steady appetite for reading and writing. I’m doing this for myself, mainly for myself, and you better believe it. 🙂

The task of carrying a sentence through to completion has been absorbing. Sometimes even more gratifying than the diversion calling for a hot blue-eyed Armie Hammer stand-in and a sturdy bed.

It’s like…where the Hades do you place your senses as you start surrendering soon after a lengthy tongue to tongue wrangle with a persuasive kisser? What woman doesn’t know the sensation.

Ah, it isn’t far from the desire that slowly builds up…leading her to assist him in taking off his shirt so she can thence feel his warm hard chest against hers.

Wohow… How indescribably Oh.

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