It's been raining on and off these past few days.
It's like the sky can't make up its mind on whether it should drench us mortals on earth or save us the trouble of whipping open battered umbrellas and pulling on warm sweaters.
My mood's kinda like that now.
I just can't seem to decide between melancholic emo or bubbly hyper-ness.
Right now, I'm more of the former.
Although it's a little more than just plain melancholic emo.
It's that same feeling I get from time to time.
That whole detached feeling that I can't describe no matter how hard I try.
I hate it when I get that feeling.
It makes me feel so hollow and empty inside.
And I know it's just a step away from the point where all the demons I try to run away from catches up with me.
I hope to intercept it before it happens.
There's this whole plethora of thoughts racing through my head and a superfluity of disconnected words.
The thing is, I feel inspired but I can't seem to pen down the inspiration that inspired me.
I take a piece of blank paper or open up a new Microsoft Word Document and try to scribble something but I end up with a blank page staring admonishingly back at me.
Also with the now inspired me, I open up my collection of incomplete stories and reread them, hoping to find a silver of the continuing line to the story.
So far, I have failed miserably in the aspect of furthering the story plot but I have tweaked the story a little here and there.
Which in other words means that I change both the protagonist and antagonist's names.
Needless to say, by the end of a year, said story would have seen the likes of fifty or so different versions of its protagonist and antagonist.
I know Shakespeare says "What's in a name?" since "That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet.", but I'm more of the opinion that a name does matter.
If you go by the saying which claims that a rose called any other name would still smell as sweet as a rose, you can technically call it any word.
Say for example; "shit".
Now I don't know about you but shit smells like shit to me.
Hmm.
I had a talk with Ira a couple of nights ago.
She's only 12 but she's pretty mature for her age.
I guess that's the outcome of being forced to grow up before you're fully ready.
Somehow, I think I shoulder a little of the burden for that.
It scares me a little when we talk and she shows raw emotion that is unconcealed by her usual wall of concrete.
She hides behind that wall all 24 hours of the day and it's so hard to get her to talk about it or show she's actually feeling something.
It's kinda like me but to a more deeper extent.
I guess that's why everytime her wall comes down for even a fraction of a second, I jump at the chance and fight to hold on to it, listening to every word that has the blessed fortune to cross her lips with an almost indecent ardency.
That reminds me of my mum when she's trying to get me to talk.
The thought elicits a strange concoction of feelings in me.
Something oddly like sadness and something else I can't fine the word to describe.
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