Though, you will find that the title has nothing to do with this passage below.
Having abolished several of my blog entries and essays, criticised and jugded myself to the point that my thinking appear incredulous and irrational, I realise now that I have failed to escape the ravishing, sporadic temptation to face my real emotions and as tragically as I did every time I attempt to force myself into something that I dont’ really like. For a sufficiently long time, I was mentally tottering out of balance . I thought I was unjust and non-sensible, unable to creditise my thoughts and feelings. I was sick of the ignoble way that I use to perceive the world, which, as far as I know now, doesn’t really need to be “noble” at all. 🙂
That is to say, I’m re-establishing the habit of blogging; though I know it’s pragmatically no use declaring this, to a practical person but to my weird instincts, it’s sort of giving a profound confidence (why would I need this here?) and commitment push-( the commitment that I would write everyday T_T) Despite deliberate rationalisation of the deed as the pressing necessity and seriousness of the problem I’m experiencing , I do enjoy writing, as much as other forms of arts. To me writing itself embodies a kind of perpetually inconquerable freedom- that of the human creativity, fathoming and conceptualising capabilities, the extension of which is we all know, virtually endless; the sort of freedom that enriches one’s living experience and empowers one’ spirit to go beyond any earthly physical bondages. With this infatuation for spontaneity, I naturally dislike premeditated, topic- centred high school essays with the excuse that when things exist with a purpose, the scope for their experience of existence tends to be limitted; just like when you’re tied down by the topic and teacher’s marking scale, writing becomes an assiduous torture, a responsibility-bound exercise of adapting or assimilating to predetermined standards.
In essence, writing should evolve around and from the freedom of self-expression, publicisation and celebration of individual identity; it should also speak of the selfish desire of one to create as well as to preserve such creations.
Not as grandiose as the rationalisation above and more than usual, blogs are my retreat from misunderstandings and disappointments, my escapade where I can bitch about the world and its vexing fallacies, or just simply temporarily hide away from constraints and exposures that are placed on the life of everyone.
Habitually, I dont’ have much socialising as even out in the public I tend to “socialise” with myself, with the comforting and understanding voice in my head and because of this, my blog wouldn’t be reaching out to the confining outside world, but rather the invaried inner mental, emotional turbulence, which I can’t help if you find circuitously dull. Like most writers, or people-who-love-to-write’s, my writing mainly evolves my secretive, obsessing concerns; strange things that happen and encapture my mind, ideas and notions that I peruse over for days, on the streets, in the bathroom, in front of my computer screen and in conversations with people. If you know me for a sufficiently long time (which is normally rare), and I find that you’re trustworthy enough, you’ll see that I actually talk a lot, mostly aimless, non-sensical rambles- exactly what I’m doing now.
Though I am in many ways fond of writing, it’s always terrifyingly confusing (if not bland) to read what I have to say. Generally I have this tendency to digress aimlessly into sub-topics, which will then proceed, without any further notice to readers, into some other slightly related subjects that I inadvertently find intriguing. Furthermore, I have a punctuation problem, like random placing of commas that is grammatically wrong and figuratively invalid (or undecipherable) to many but it does resembles my habit in conversation, like a contemplative pause, and it is sort of contributive to the flow of my words.