Fluff

Wow, my brain is really mucked right now. It feels tight, like it has expanded in my skull and is pressing up against it with nowhere to go. I feel really fuzzy and my vision is blurred like a camera lens trying to get in focus.

I'm annoyed at not being able to write down ideas and thoughts when they come; when they're freshest and most vivid. When they're pressing to get out through my fingers and into recorded history (if that's not dramatic enough). I'm not able to write when I truly want to write, in other words. That's lame. It kind of belies the whole point of having a diary.

Oh well. I suppose I ought to remember what to write down, anyway. Unfortunately my short-term memory is rather, well, short. I don't know why, it just is. I never smoked pot, for example, my memory has pretty much always been bad.

I guess I'm fortunate in that I rarely get writer's block. I can certainly sympathize with the condition, though, and it's quite frustrating. Writing is a delicate endeavor. It is one of those things that almost has to come naturally in a flow for it to truly work. Of course, there are different kinds of writing. Poetry and lyrics to research papers and proposals and business writing. Some are more amenable to revision and cutting and pasting and editing than others.
Anyway, it's good to practice and to write casually as practice. Then when there is pressure or a deadline, it is easier and more comfortable.

Plus - judging from this very entry for example - writing is a pursuit that needn't have a purpose. I can start with nothing and come out a million miles away, on the other side, like in China or Australia or somewhere in the Pacific. It's weird. Like a worm-hole of sorts (a wormhole?). Whatever, a black-hole, too, sometimes (which might be a bad thing). Writer's block is akin to a black hole. You try to get something - anything - down on paper, but the potentiality of your thoughts and ideas either dissipates into nothing, or into some nether-region in your brain from which there is no return and no escape. If that's too dramatic, ask anyone's who has tried to write a book, or has tried to write under a looming deadline, and they can attest to the horror of "block".

Being too self-absorbed can at times trigger it, too, it would seem. If all you think about is yourself and how you do or don't do this or that, it can tie your thoughts into a knot and nothing will come out.

Oh well. Some would say that there is too much being written out there these days, anyway. Too many egotistic writers seeking an audience, too much media, too much "user-created media", I heard some pundit say. Not enough of those who write purely for their own enjoyment or amusement. And who doesn't want an audience? But there is only so much audience to go around; only so much people can, and want to read each day. If most of it is fluff anyway, than who cares? Why waste your time.