Sometimes my books bomb. Somehow, while under duress of
finding a plot or story, I turn in a irrational random assemblage of sentences,
that were subconsciously kidnapped from my mind when either asleep or semi-comatose.
It has been a common experience to wake up in the dead of night and stare at
the blank black wall to force my thoughts into novelistic pages.
Random or arbitrary,
I come up with a plan of chaos that is clearly spaced out and unwittingly dull
to read. It’s like I am thinking to
write something against my will and yet, I stumble over every word to express
myself. Reading my paper is like watching a boring television rerun that plays
unfamiliar yet acquainted expressions that were written to interact with the
blend of an exotic cocktail that is stirred mixed and shaken beyond its limits
for the exquisite taste desired but falling short of such expectations.
After reading
all that I have written, I trash it and throw it away as an unwanted desire to
clearly express myself but bumbling over the right words and phrases. I am
often and most certainly, held hostage by my own writings and seek to find a
release from such situations to come back and do it all over again
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