Humdrum Conundrum

Feeling a smidgen of responsibility to write something, yet not possessing the requisite creativity (there being only so much undifferentiated creative progenitors to distribute amongst curious and abstruse forms of expression that usually turn out to be embarrassingly bad) to produce something decent (penning a bad piece of writing seems almost like birthing some hideous, chronically deformed monstrosity and exposing the world to the horror of its entirety), I scratched around in the dry lakebeds of my mind searching for some morsel of inspiration on what I could possibly write about. Because of some subconscious urge to dodge all things related to my personal life, the subject matter that I could pull out of a hat, and a small hat at that, had been dwindling ever since I began writing "seriously", as serious as a "blog" can get, and so I found myself being totally unable to come up with anything (except this pathetic apology piece which can only get more painful, like a hysterectomy).

But there is only so much that can capture the fleeting attention of people. I could muse about the zeitgeist and general student life here, but it would only ever be about the crazed and drunken antics of the students here, which by themselves are quite a golden basket case of ceaseless amusement; I could describe, with full details, everything I did everyday, though it would mainly consist of a vicious cycle of webcomics, Physics and wine. It would never work out, as I would collapse onto my keyboard faster than a small child on Rohypnol (or like a falling boulder, if you didn't get the shockingly bad analogy).

So instead I tweeze some unexciting topic out of a magical box of unexciting topics (I imagine this to be a velvet-lined box; it is, if you were wondering, red velvet) and proceed to beat the daylights out of it, milking it like a sugar cane, um, "cane", crushing it between the relentless rollers of poor word choice and a bad disposition until enough mild-flavoured juice had been collected and dutifully served up (and spat out like it were urine, probably).

This is why so much "personal" writing has such a limited audience – because people's lives are boring - except when they start to interfere with each others'. That of course, is the sort of material we are after, at least our chatty, Tupperware Club alter-egos. Naturally, I would be scant to offer such material, mainly because there is none (none that anyone who at least knew my name enough to pronounce it correctly, would ever be interested in)

So once again, by churning the churn of letters and spinning the wheel of words I again have something to write about. In fact, this is almost like people who hack out a schpiel of everything they've done and the people who've cheesed them of and the songs they listened to and the ketchup sachets they used and the size of shoes their sisters wear, and so on. It's all very "forced", like literary bulimia.

Instead, I retreat back to reading authors who obviously know what real writing is about, and it has been most fulfilling, reading palatable, funny, ironic prose rather than tapping one's fingers at the keyboard being unable to "get it up" (yes, in exactly the same way as that). Probably some time I'll observe something I truly feel like writing about, instead of merely bullshitting about.