I think it was Hemingway who said that all you need to write well was to sit at a paper and bleed. Or some variation ot that. Bleed. That seems to be what is tough to do. I am so used to keeping everythng inside that strange little mind up there. This bleeding on to paper part is not familiar at all. It is easy to keep things there, in your head, far away from criticism, from challenge, ridicule and praise. It requires no effort.
Bleeding onto paper these days is at any rate, a feat nigh impossible. Not for the lack of words but for the dearth of people actually putting pen to paper Or blood to paper, as it were. Typing stuff requires effort and that is something severely lacking. What with college and its associated headaches taking up much of the time and general lethargy built up over nearly half decade of slovenly laziness, generating enough energy to depress a series of buttons to create words is a tedious task.
Add to that the weather of this place, sometimes warm, often cold, often rainy and nearly always pleasant, and there you have something that will distract you away from any activity. The only thing the mind and body allows is relaxation. At the local barista, in the bed, lounging around at home in underpants, anywhere, but it has to be rest.
This will probably be an effort. A daily effort to put something up that is worth reading. At least for me. With enough and more personal blogs around, I wonder, what is the point? Another bit of shitty writing to the pile probably?
I suspect that a few days from now this will be totally forgotten in the wake of some work or the other. I hope to visit often though.
I will take Hemingway’s advice. To bleed. Bring a band-aid.
In a World like This 