I never realized how much I needed to write until I was separated from my home and my notebooks–paper and pens, really. Traveling with no paper to take notes... Torture. I find myself speaking monologues that will never be written down. After being thought, I can never recall the beauty of their phrasing. That, I suppose, is why I seem to feel the need to carry paper with me at all times. But here I am, deciding that I will turn to virtual paper. I want to try and disseminate my thoughts. I never could quite get past the self-centredness of a blog but now, it just seems right. Single thoughts, articles, or novellas–I will exist without a publisher to get the monologues down and out into public. Even if no one reads them, I know that I have produced and can be happy with that.
My need to create has become so strong that I almost hate myself when nothing comes out. How am I supposed to be an artist that does not create? The urge is so strong it is almost nauseating but there is a wall–a stubborn, wall built by confusion and the need to present myself completed. I need to organize my thoughts in writing, I need to see them on the page, so here I go. Time to get started.
