Obliging a beckoning blog

Ghost Town

What desolation.
I’m seeing tumbleweeds rolling across this page.
An arid landscape, devoid of fresh springs of life,
Literary Canvas has become a ghost town.
Countless times I’ve dropped by, but only to have fled.
My will might betray me.
Present reality wants a sharing, but I’m resisting.
To God I take up my concerns.
When delight swells, or spite compels, and the need to regale or rail entails, my mind shuts down.

It seems I can’t stop narrating like a poet. I’m sorry. Hello blog, it has been a while.  I only have myself to blame for a punctured momentum in fiction writing. It is with hope that I write this, to stir my literary juices. I think I’m scrabbling for underused words stowed somewhere in my brain. They’re nowhere to be found; and my prose, the one I feel natural is suppressed by the stilted language of the Pressed Pants People I’ve been going by at work.

In my absence I’ve been putting on a mask of normalcy, integrating myself to public life after almost a year observing the course of my country behind the computer screen. I’m tired of hiding my introversion. I tire of people’s expectations. For now, I’ll unwind.

Corporate life be damned. The masquerade and the inhibition can tango out the window.

I’m revving up frivolity, I’ll write bunkum and I’ll care not what people think of me.

At the moment, the scant meat beneath my skin is still trying to acclimatize to air-conditioning every working day. It competes with my brain for amino acids. Part of my mental cognitive had to shut down because of protein deficiency.

When the pressure of people turns overwhelming, I took to TV shows. Pleasure reading has slowed. As for writing, I try to keep the writing region of my brain active, by finding terms to describe what I see on my morning walks to the office.

The embedded stones in a field of unused plot;

the tessellated lane I walk on;

Strewn litter amidst grassy plains;

The mountain range beyond and how the mists envelopes it early morning;

Misted Range

or how low pregnant clouds hover before they purge.

Words keep me company as I strain to keep reality at bay, at least until I reach the office.

Then work begins. Interpersonal skills engaged. My territorial demon  is roused when inhibition is weak and sleep is lacking (aren’t all writers like that?)

People.

Can’t I just observe without attracting attention? That’s what writers do, to find words to describe what they see. And when blokes intrigued by me become… overwhelming. I grow weary.

Remembering that I’m a Christian usually puts a rein on my attitude. I’m an introvert. A wild imaginist. Fiction feeds me. God, my family, and fictional world will sustain me. 

I shouldn’t let reality dull me. This office needs an otherworldly story. Hmm…

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