I am writing this because I have nothing else to do.
And you know how much I want to talk about the rain and science and literature. And the wonder effects of caffeine. You know how I enjoy reading but fail to read the signs.
I am writing because I just can’t seem to speak these days.
But you know how much I love words, sometimes even more than their meanings. Like how I randomly say cripple and dota and omega and some name I just like hearing after mine. And how I don’t make sense most of the time. And perhaps you see how I keep my head down as others speak, even when I know I have more things to say, more sensible things to say. And less the curses, of course. You know I don’t like talking.
I am writing because it’s comforting.
You see I convince myself that every time I write I am sharing a part of myself to someone/something else. Then I am more human. And web pages are not terrifying especially if you know no one reads. Then, the fault wouldn’t be entirely yours, but theirs as well, and you convince yourself you are not anti social.
I am writing because I don’t know what time it is.
And perhaps, I am writing because I don’t care. My right wrist where my watch should be, is bare; but the night sky tells me it’s late. It’s late. I’m always late, and tonight I am being late because I am writing, and I am writing about being late.
I am writing because I have ink enough to spare, and I want to fill the space in front of me.
And that’s funny, because filling space is what other people do, I enjoy being alone. Well, except if the other choice is being with –--
I am writing because I want to feel this time worthwhile, and productive and significant and true.
I like knowing that time passes, that time has passed. I really hate the sense of things being gone. But the knowledge that they really were once true is usually a consolation enough for me. And when I see this in the future, I would know time had passes, and I was part of it.
I am writing because I don’t understand what’s on my head.
This ringing has been going on and on. But I don’t want to write about another person anymore. I want this to be entirely about myself, but sometimes I’m not sure if I should be writing about me, when I can’t even understand my thoughts anymore.
And then something says that I am writing this because I can’t stop thinking about you.
But I wouldn’t want to sign myself into another broken vow, and moments of after-thoughts. You see, now, I am thinking of a shirt, and a pen, and now some other person’s handwriting. Now I am thinking about a bike, now the moon. Now your eyes, so like the moon. Now I am thinking about the rain, now mud. I am thinking about a colon, I don’t know why, it is a punctuation mark that says these, or that something follows, or maybe it is just a dot over another we make too much of. Now I am thinking about the sun, it is absent. I am thinking of a church, and water. I am thinking about how you wouldn’t see this anyway. I am thinking about how there is no particular you in my head. I am thinking of what to write next, and I don’t know if I should care. I don’t know what to write anymore.
I realized I am writing when I have a lot of other things to do.
