the week of the lazy

Another blast from the not so recent past. I know there are a lot of things I could be better off doing and writing about, but what the heck. This week, this months, this life has been all about doing things that you’re not supposed to do, and not doing things that you could be better off doing. This week, let’s call it The Week of the Lazy.
Strange enough, this blast form the past entry was dated. I guess comes with being the first entry on a new notebook. This will be edited out in part, sans any traces that would have reflected thoughts or people whom I’d rather not dwell on anymore. Don’t fuss, my lone reader. Given that pace of things, nothing would have changed that much in my point of view.
April 28, 2008
I admit, I have a fascination for blank sheets of paper. Blank sheets of paper and good writing pens. It’s been quite some time since I have written something by hand that’s truly relevant. Forgive the handwriting and all the stuff in between. And forgive too if I end up cutting myself off in the middle of a thought or a sentence. My hands might be hurting already or I might be grabbing a new pen. So much for being a so-called writer. I have always believed that writing does not so much contain me or what I’d like to say. Sometimes my words fail me or give proof to my poor and limited vocabulary or rusty grammar. Most of the time, I fail my own words and thoughts, not giving them enough justice on a post. Most of the time, I just can’t write fast enough. Or type fast enough when I’m on the PC. In part, I guess, would be because the written word sometimes feels so restricted and intentional. Motivated and controlled. Like every word is weighed and measured and calculated too much to actually emulate feelings that are much more spontaneous and abrupt.
My hand is tired. I suddenly wished I was ambidextrous.
Way back when, I envisioned myself as a good, fairly good writer. Muddled too much maybe by my youth and my experiences, or lack thereof, I now fear that I cannot write as well as I did before. I might have more to write about now but let’s face it: I might be too old for this yet. There might be too much to write about not for anything of it or anything else to matter, catching up for all the writing that that I have missed looks futile and desperate.
But on the other hand, it isn’t really ever too late for anything, right? Or maybe that’s just me rationalizing the cramps building up in my wrists. Not even I will be able to read this later, given the fact that my handwriting would soon be reduced to chicken scratches well enough before I can actually compose something profound and interesting to read.
God, I am such a loser. But I will try to fill up this notebook with my thoughts, even if it means my hand falling off, or me finally being ambidextrous. And I am only just starting.
(Eventually, after writing a good seven or eight pages on it, I lost the notebook and just found it the other day. Pathetic. Now that I got my phone, I don’t even have a use for it anymore, at least I could probably use it to doodle on, but not write anymore. I can thumb my way through my E71 a lot easier now.)

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