 |
| Illustration by Büke Schwarz |
On This
Sometimes, this,
cutting thoughts into clear written pieces, is like exposing an organ
to grab it and dash it on paper. It's a martial act, a fight for and
against every word I put down. It's bloody. It's bloody annoying. I
am annoyed at hitting the letters on my keyboard just to press delete
soon after.
This, it constricts me.
The freedom allowed in writing constricts me. And yet, I'm urged to
open a new page. I eagerly stray into the vast wonderland, where
anything, LITERALLY anything goes. Of course, there are signposts to
spelling, punctuation and grammar. And yes, there is vocabulary,
collocations and style. But most routes are subjective. Directions
vary. In the end, the number of words and ways to arrange them
remains. Freedom remains.
So, I do what I do. I
do what it takes to numb a fickle perfectionist’s pain: I press
delete until the page is empty. And after awhile of starring, of
hoping for a gracious mood, I resign over the endless opportunities
ahead.
No comments:
Post a Comment