There’s a lot of stuff that I’m churning up inside my head, and as my head isn’t some kind of dairy farm involved in the production of some pro-biotic yoghurt and I do want to get something approaching a few hours sleep tonight I thought I might be so kind as to spew up the contents of the afore mentioned head across the gloriously blank page that lies before my bag lined eyes for all the world to see…..oh well here goes…………
Frighteningly blank isn’t it?
Each new word smacks up against the expanse of white. Times New Roman, point size 12. Pleasing serifs with an air of formality, grace and familiarity. (Or at least it was until I pasted it from word to here!) Christ I really can bullshit for England. But what does it all mean? What is actually behind all these words? Formations of letters splattered and peppered across the page. Are they as empty as they seem to me? Are the words as empty as I am?
Words do not even begin to express how I feel at the moment.
They are so incredibly inadequate.
They are just sounds and shapes.
Limited and finite by their very nature.
They both enclose and trap the space around.
They seek to clarify and confirm. By selecting one word I discount thousands of others. I type this in a very fluid fashion. Quickly even. But how do I make those choices?
When someone asks me a question i am struck dumb. The same terror hits me. To select the right words. To find words that fit the context. It seems such a task. So I swing between inane verbal diarrhoea and baffled muteness.
This is my first ever blog entry.
Angst ridden and cringingly egotistical. Incoherent and self indulgent. I am repulsed by it. My blog had remained empty for so long. I knew that as soon as I clicked the button to write my first entry and type the first word it would fall from its perfection. As long as I never wrote in it, it would remain in its dizzy state of emptiness and possibility. Potentiality is so much more preferable to actuality.
what do all these words mean?
What does any of this mean?
The anticlimax, the crescendo is over. The result is disappointingly flat; turgid words standing up against one another, squat pillars holding up the page for the eye to follow. The reader glazes over the words, looking for something anything with which to respond. A relationship is formed. I am the writer and you are the reader. I give you a little of my being, my essence, my self tonight. Yet I will never know who has read this, nor will I know what you think of these inane ramblings.
No longer is my blog empty….