The Incessant Return

And so, as it could have been obviously foreseen, I am back to the world of blogging. For there is no reason why an aspiring writer would not attempt to publish her own misleading, irrelevant thoughts in a web page lost in the internetic (internetical?) ocean. Writing a public diary, even if there are no readers with lots of time and boredom in their hands left to accidentally bump into this modest journal, can still be seen as practice - not only as in language experimentation, but also in demonstrating the results of a so-called experimentation for a potentially limitless (and scaring) audience.

Which brings us to the age-old but still firmly rooted decision that this scriba has made a little more than a decade ago. I still haven't given up on the romantic idea that I will write a book. Eventually, it will happen. It is simply implausible to think that I've spent nearly half of a quarter of century yearning to do something and spend the three other quarters without seeing it happening. Now, why would you give a rat's ass about my seemingly selfish desire to see my words bound nicely in a square stack of paper, then it's another story. Because, honestly, I don'y give a rat's ass anymore about wether anyone thinks I should or not go for it. What I've found, after all these years muttering to myself the oh-so-cliché idea "I've got a book inside me", is that I've been wanting it for the wrong reasons. Which was simply to expose my self. Get attention. Show off the amazing personality that I think i've got and no one really knows about. Yadda yadda yadda.

Now, does that sound slightly... how should I say this... fuckin' self-absorbed and immature? That's what I've come to conclude as well.

So, after long reflecting about this matter, which now counts over 12 months during which I've tried my best (well, not really) to clean up, if not all, most of my emotional and practical rubbish, I have arrived at the following conclusion: I want to write because IT JUST GIVES ME PLEASURE. Because I JUST FEEL GOOD WHEN I'M ABLE TO ARTICULATE MY THOUGHTS. Because if I'm doing it for myself and taking my own time IT'S undeniably FUN.

Well, the last part is a load of rubbish which will probably not take me anywhere, because writing, as a profession, as a career, is DEFINITELY NOT FUN. I know what it is to spend days agonizing over a blank screen trying to find the right words to express ideas. It is time-consuming, hair-pulling, jumping-up-and-down-screaming-in-agony stressful. And it is also sad. But in a strangely soothing way, when you find those stupid little words, these seemingly small and foolish concoctions of alphabetical characters heavily charged with the meanings of everything you are, it is also deeply rewarding.

So, I'm back.