22

Chapter 22 is in its last page. I sit before the computer while the remaining lines materialise into place.

It’s not particularly interesting, as last pages go.

I imagine it would go something like this:

She sits in front of her computer, typing, like she did almost every time a chapter ends. Except during the close of Chapter 20, that was crazy. But the ones before and after, well, they involve her sitting alone in her room, navel-gazing without much enthusiasm.

For some reason, she muses, Jack Johnson’s easy tunes are always accompanying her during – as she would dub 21st June from now on – her Dark Day. Ironically, all he’s repeating now is “You better hope you’re not alone, you better hope you’re not alone, you better hope you’re not alone (etc etc)”. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jack, she thought with a tiny smile, the facial effort being all she can manage right now. It’s the same song she listened to last year at this very moment – she has the blog post to prove it. Coincidence or cosmic joke? She chuckles silently, amused that a punch line can be so literal.

This year, however, it’s a little different. She can deal with being alone, for twenty odd Dark Days have thought her a thing or two about having no expectations. She is neither sad nor bitter. She isn’t even numb. Perhaps the correct description is that she has accepted, surrendered, let go. The ending of a chapter and the beginning of another – everyone does it differently. Some celebrate, some mourn; some get high, some slump low. Perhaps it has been written somewhere that she will always spend hers alone, in her room, listening to Jack Johnson, sipping a glass of melancholy – both shaken and stirred.

It’s not so bad, actually. There are worse places to spend it. All in all, she has it easy.

The biggest difference, of course, lies in how empty Chapter 23 is. The fresh, spotless pages scare her. For the first time, she has no story draft – the plot can go anywhere, the characters can develop into complete strangers, and the setting, oh she knows too little about the setting. The book can propel into a completely different direction, even cross several genres, and she can’t decide if that’s a bad thing or not.

Nevertheless, the pages must be filled. She’ll have to make it up as she goes along.

******
It is a Dark Day. Pudu Jail is to be demolished today. When development bulldozes its way through, nothing survives – not a historical site, not the longest painted wall recorded in the Guinness Book of Records, and definitely not our pride.

Read story here.

I am repulsed by this statement: “The government is of the opinion that [the Pudu Jail] is not something we can be proud of. There are many other things we can be proud of compared to a jail.”

Yes, we are proud of many things in Malaysia, and they happen to include a jail. In fact, we may be holding a jail in higher regards than we are with politicians who decide what we can or cannot be proud of.

Read “Pudu Jail: Walls come tumbling down, history bypassed — Badan Warisan Malaysia” in the Malaysian Insider.

I was only half my current height when my parents first took me on a tour to Pudu Jail. We looked into the barren cells that inmates used to live in, watched a disturbing video on how whippings were carried out, and sat in a dark room while listening to an eerie audio re-enactment of a hanging process.

We peered into the hole which death row inmates dropped to their demise, imagining their bodies abruptly dragged down by gravity and, possibly, guilt. We read the explanation written by the side of each type of noose.

The place reeked of grim hopelessness. And then I saw the wall – a mural of lush green forest painted by the prison inmates.

Even at that young age, the peaceful artwork so full of life struck me as a stark contrast of what the wall held within – Death, and its companion, Despair.

An otherwise intimidating architecture, softened by gentle strokes of colour. It’s like someone has painted Hope, and couldn’t stop, until he ran out of wall.

Now, every time I pass by Pudu Jail, I’m reminded of the day my Dad held my little hands as I stared in awe at the wall, forgetting to close my mouth as always.

Now, the building is gone, save for a small section of the wall flanking its main gates. Will I still remember the hope, the childish wonder, the warmth of my father’s hands?

If a developed nation can only step on the wreckage of its yesterdays to go higher, tell me, how high is enough?

Baggage

Looks like hiatuses have become a habit for me, and blogging when I have no internet connection has become a fine tradition.

Yesterday I asked God to help me be less distracted. And poof goes my DSL light (not right after my prayer, of course. Heaven practise less dramatic sense of timing than most people think). So there, my doubts were confirmed - Facebook hasn’t got divine approval.

Anyway, plenty of things have happened since I last blogged. I shall try to recount them quickly, or slowly, my longwinded-ness being something expected by my loyal readers (yes, I have one or two, as baffling as it sounds. They must really like my blog layout).

First of all, I’m going to the USA. Don’t be duped by the nonchalant full stop. My mind is actually so full of exclamation marks and question marks and, for some reason, parentheses that they reached a bottleneck on their way to my fingers (What to do, my internal motorway is made in Malaysia. Ooo look, a pair of parentheses squeezed its way out via the emergency lane, tsk tsk).

Thankfully, I still have a little less than two months to get used to the idea that I AM LEAVING.

My Au Pair programme will start on early July. I shall have to be prepared to take care of three super adorable but possibly naughty kids, live with a host family and in a country half the globe away, making new friends, adopting a new lifestyle and making my own path.

Most of all, I will be stuffing as much of my life as possible in a suitcase and bid goodbye to those that would not fit.

I would really, really like them to fit, though. But hauling two parents, a hyperactive sister and her dramatic husband, a noisy boyfriend and a bunch of whimsical buddies through the departure gate would just make the customs have a fit. Loading them all onto the bomb-scan-conveyor-belt thingie would be problematic too.

So I suppose I just have to settle on wiping the tears off and sucking it in.
It’s just as well, too, for this is a trip where I test my mettle. When out of my comfort zone, who will I be? How far can I go?

I don’t really know why it is important to find out about this. I don’t even know whether I’d like what I find. But I want to know all the same.

Am I me? Or am I the people around me?

Plus, I’m dying to see the States. Perhaps I really am selfish.

***

I had a nervous breakdown last night.

The US trip was suddenly becoming too real. If reality bites, this one nibbles. Slowly. Discreetly. And one day when I look down my right leg is gone.

Reality burps.

As I lay on my bed last night, thoughts filled my head, none of them pretty. The thing about thinking too much in the middle of the night is that monsters come to haunt you. There’s a line about heroes in Pratchett’s Wintersmith, “...someone must go into the Underworld to find the real Summer Lady... and he must do it in fear and terror like a real Hero should, because a lot of the monsters he must overcome are the ones in his head, the ones he brings in with him.”

I’m no hero. But that’s no excuse to act like a wuss.

So I push all the monsters away and fell asleep. It was a fitful night.

Then Bryan called me this morning. “You are at the point of no return,” he pointed out, along with some analogies to do with airplanes and flying too far from base and not having enough petrol to fly back and other aeroplanes already taken your place. He sounded mighty intelligent for 7 am, but too bad my head was still half-buried in my pillow.

When I got a bit more sober, the truth of what he said hit me. I am at the point of no return. Any form of wallowing and self-doubt should have been done months ago, before I hit the application button. Now, it’s a straight road ahead.

And it’s wide open.

So yeah, maybe I’ll never be ready to leave the life I know here. Maybe I’ll never be ready to let go. Maybe I’ll never be ready for the possibility that when I come home, everyone may have moved on with their lives. Maybe I’ll never be ready to take that cross-continental leap.

But maybe I don’t have to be ready too. There must be a reason why faith is often associated with leaps, and not marathons.

Bite this

If you are going to buy, borrow, beg or steal a book soon, make it Yasmin Ahmad’s Films by Amir Muhammad.

(The stealing bit was a joke. Usually I tend to avoid blatant disclaimers like this, but you’d never know, the same people who got Nose4News’ writer into trouble may be reading this and get unnecessarily excited. My holistic upbringing teaches me that it is better to be safe than sued.)

Now, I’m never very good at reviews – so many things these days hardly deserve one. But then again, so many gems out there do, and I always have a fear that whatever I say would not do justice to them. So I kept quiet. After all, I can always post the link to Facebook and tag the whole world.

However, Yasmin Ahmad’s Films is so good that I figured no amount of lame gushing from me would be able to screw it up for you. So, OMG OMG GET THE BOOK I *HEARTS* IT LONG TIME!

I may be biased though. I’m the type of person who loves reading anthologies and interpretations of artworks. I love having people point out, highlight, circle, and double underline the symbolism, the subconscious messages and the cheeky hints that writers, filmmakers and artists sprinkled in their work. This is perhaps why I read Otaku Zone in The Star although I have no patience for manga. Or why I can be engrossed in Bryan’s PC Gamer magazine for hours although I have no brain cells for those super-strenous games that they review.

And I always have a soft spot for wit. And gosh, Amir Muhammad is witty. Five minutes into the book and three of them have been spent laughing and then re-reading those clever lines and laughing again.

I also cried. Yasmin always had that effect on me. Now, I discovered that Amir does too.

The book is, of course, about Yasmin Ahmad’s films. But it is not just about Yasmin Ahmad’s films. Some people may think, like I did before I bought the book, why would we want to read something that we have watched? And then I started reading it. And I couldn’t stop.

I would like to think that this book is more about the story behind Yasmin Ahmad’s stories. It tells of Yasmin’s life, her philosophy, her vulnerability, her support group, and her disarming cheekiness. Rather than tediously over-analysing her scenes, the book actually accentuated them, helping us see things that we have never appreciated, and unveiling inspiring messages that we may have missed. Like I said, I’m a sucker for these things.

Amir also inserted his own notes about Malaysia’s various concepts, quirks, camaraderie, and contradictions, and those are the parts that I really like about the book. Don’t get me wrong – he did not gloss about the muhibbah-ness and the 1Malaysia-ness (I accidentally typed 1Malaysia-mess. Perhaps my fingers are bolder than my brain in accepting the obvious. I suppose it’s because finger-washing never quite caught on as well as brainwashing). His notes are honest, insightful, enlightening, down-to-earth, and best of all, funny like hell.

Flipping through the pages in the bookshop, I had that ZOMG MUST GET THIS feeling, which I always consider as an approving sign from the above to blow my budget for the month.

Perhaps it was divine intervention. I have no regrets buying it. I do not want to go into the details of describing it, because revisiting the memories of Yasmin Ahmad is something that is so personal, you have to experience it on your own.

According to the back cover, “all the writer’s royalties from the first edition will be donated to the MERCY – Yasmin Ahmad Fund for Children”. Think of the little kiddos and reach for your wallet already. They will thank you for it. Best of all, you may thank yourself – and goodness know you need to do that more often.

*Flaps hands*

Apparently you can get an award by nagging other people about deadlines and taking long hiatuses in the name of Writer’s Block. I know, because I got one.



Thank you, Shareen Mohd Salleh for passing on the award to me, and congratulations on winning it yourself =) Although we’ve never met before, I’m sure that you, a most sweet and witty soul, totally deserves the award above.

I, on the other hand, accept this honour with a deep bow and a deeper bafflement. I mean, Beautiful Blogger Award?

First of all, I’ve been associated with many things (“weird” and “lame” remain the popular favourites). But “beautiful”? Have you even met me? Okay, so I hear some of you say beauty is also about having a heart of gold and sweet nature etc, which is all great except for one question – have you even met me?

Secondly, the word “Blogger” – have you seen the dates of my sporadic posts? And have you seen the way I insistently whine about deadlines and writer’s block, in the hope that no one will notice that my brain is actually dry? No, I don’t deserve the word “blogger”.

So, “Beautiful Blogger” would have been a double negative in my case, which is a big-no-no according to one of my English lecturers. It confuses people, he cautioned, which is rather far-sighted of him, in light of my current affairs.

The fact that I got the award anyway shows that there really is no justice in the world, just a whole lot of forgiving people - like Shareen Mohd Salleh =D Yes, I’m shamelessly plugging you, because you selflessly plugged me.

And what would an award be without some thank-you speech, right? So, here goes, for the sake of protocol (actually, I’ve been waiting all my life for an opportunity like this, but what would the world be if award-recipients go around telling the truth, eh?).

Thank you, all you readers who have encouraged, pushed, nudged, kicked, dragged and threatened me in the right/write direction. You have been my source of strength and inspiration. You’re the reason I still write. And for that, I owe you my lifelong gratitude.

And before you yell “is there no end to this syok-sendiri post?!”, let me assure you that you’re right – the end isn’t nigh. I have the privilege to pass this award to another 15 bloggers out there!

Sadly, I don’t read blogs that often, so I only know a handful of really good bloggers. Nonetheless, here goes the List of Awesome (in no particular order):

• Twisted Transistor for her ability to add drama and humour into any topic, especially the ones about her dogs.
• The Pragadissio Notebook for his eloquence and wit, and his persistence to blog come-what-closing-week-may has been my constant inspiration.
• Kaki khayal for their quirky, fun and clever concept. Keep it up, girls!
• On the Street for her pictures that always reach deep into my heart and giving it a tickle, or a cosy squeeze. Woi mana update?
• Table 28 for her ass-kicking pics and even better captions – gripping souls since 2005 (when she was still clicking around with a tiny “i”camera ^^)
• mimpiiiii !!for her ability to make me laugh, think, nod and shake my head, sometimes all at once.
  

Okay, I’m out. To the 6 bloggers above, grab your award! And here are the rules for the award (courtesy of Shareen):
1. Thank & link the person that gave you the award.
2. Pass this award onto 15 bloggers you’ve recently discovered and think are fantastic beautiful too
3. Contact said Blogs and let them know they’ve won the award
4. State 7 things about yourself.

Now, I am required to tell 7 random facts about myself, or I may risk being disqualified (DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH MY AWARD!):

1) I am hooked on zombies, especially plant-eating ones (but I’m not really picky, because what would the world be if you go around picking on zombies, eh?). I mean, enough of celebrating monsters that charm young, front-heavy ladies, live forever and ever and most recently, glitter in the sunlight. Too much drama. Zombies never judge their victims, die graciously when their time is up, and are made out of (or covered with) flesh and blood – probably not much different from heroes, if you ask me.

2) I can be very long-winded.

3) I am the founder of the Brainz Assembly – an enlightened organization dedicated to both worship and fight zombies, whichever mood strikes us. In a better world, we would be revered and spoken in hushed whispers. Alas, in this bewildering dimension, people just point at us and laugh. But it’s okay, my trusted aide Pauline and I have a sense of humour. Taking over the world, one silly act at a time, is fine by us too. The goal justifies the mean.

4) I can be very long-winded, and redundant.

5) I write to live, so that one day I can afford to live to write.

6) Satire, Terry Pratchett, TimBurtonandJohnnyDepp make me happy.

7) Strawberry ice cream, hot air balloons and pretty but useless stuff make me happy too.

Gosh, 7 random things about myself is so not easy to write. That’s because I’m held together by sheer randomness (and stubbornness), and listing only 7 is like playing favourites. It’s like asking me which part of the skin on my body that I like most.

Okay winners, get cracking.

No signal

The chronicles of me losing my computer and connection, which I can only upload now:

Day F-ing One

I have a corpse of a computer in my room.

Well, not exactly a corpse yet. A vegetable, more like.

A freshly fried one.

I don’t really know how to deal with fried computers. It’s like this soul-less crate with its innards unabashedly exhibiting itself. My Dad and I removed the CPU covers, unable to accept that my tool of trade for 5 years is now barely smarter than my keyboard. So we yanked off the covers and peered purposefully into it for ten minutes, before realizing that we are not even sure what we were looking for. The torchlight merely illuminated more gibberish.

My baby won’t load. And it’s probably the mobo (hah! I know geek lingo. I just don’t know what a mobo looks like). Oh please God let it be the mobo. If it’s my hard disc that’s just got whacked I’m going to cry. I’ll lose 5 years worth of, well, stuff. Important, definitely. I just can’t really remember what they are. And when I do remember what they are, I AM really going to cry.

But until we get the expert’s verdict (that’d be Bryan doing another round of purposeful probing before he nags me about my dusty CPU interior), I’m stuck with a gaping casing. I can’t even look at it in the bulb. I’m responsible for its vegetative state. I fried its brains because I didn’t turn it off in time when the lightning strike. I killed it, and when its cursor stared at me for the last time, cold and frozen, right after the lightning, the last words I said to it was “Oh shit nonono shit.”

And when my lost has sunk in (right after the hit I actually went and did some filing, which shows you how crazy a shock can make you), I actually felt a little relieved. Like, yay, I’m free to do anything now because I have no more obligations to work. I have no computer, no connection! So I went to finish up with my filing. And when that is done, I watched Gilmore Girls. And when I had enough of Gilmore Girls, I sit down here and blog on my parents’ computer. Or rather, I type on my parents’ computer, because it can’t go on the internet.

And then it really sunk in, like a hammer. How the hell am I going to work tomorrow? I have no computer, no connection! How do I type out my article? How do I Facebook? How do I check my emails? What do I wake up to? Who will make my breakfast?

Oh wait, my mum makes my breakfast. But its funny how losing a machine creates a similar feeling of losing your loved ones. Suddenly, I have this huge computer-shaped hole in my life. I cannot imagine how would I live without it, yet at the same time, I’m curious to know how would I live without it. I feel like the strings that bind me to my computer have been cut loose. Technically, I am free. But really, I am balancing the strings on my wrists and pretending that the noose is real. Because anything else is unimaginable.

If you think I’m being melodramatic, let me fry your computer. Then we can together-gether be melodramatic, because misery loves company.

Gosh, so this is withdrawal symptoms.

Day Two:

Hurgh. It’s amazing how gung-ho I am to blog when I have no internet connection. Must be all the extra free time I have. Sometimes I can’t remember how I used to spend my time back when I had no broadband. Watching televisions and reading books I supposed. But the internet has overwritten my page-flipping abilities and toleration for commercial breaks, replacing it with a kind of stubborn patience for eternal buffering.

Price of modernization, they say.

Okay, I’m suffering from withdrawal symptoms. My computer has, as it turned out, just a fried network card. Which means I can actually use my computer like normal, just not for connecting with the outside world. Which means I did not kill it; it’s just having social issues due to some nasty shock (lightning bolts can do that to you). Which means I’m good.

But I’m also greedy. I have been kinda sick of my computer running in snail pace for a while now, and this lightning strike has just been my excuse to finally pump up those specs. So, now my CPU lies forlorn in the backroom while Bryan’s old machine takes up its throne. And so far, so good. Bryan’s computer can run Windows 7 with ease, which means the programs now fade in and out so gracefully and the taskbar is not cramped with my multitasking mess.

Except this isn’t my computer. My computer doesn’t have programs fading in and out gracefully, nor a designer task bar complete with the whole clean, unlived-in look. Heck, my computer doesn’t even have Microsoft 2007, which I am currently using to type on.

My computer drags its programs up at its own pace, and if you click on the buttons too many times it hangs, just to show you who’s boss. My computer has an eyesore of a taskbar, with opened documents strewn all over and a rotting webpage from last week still lying inconspicuously beneath the pile. My computer makes Bryan wanna scratch his eyeballs out, which is fun to watch. My computer still uses Microsoft 2003, which is a darn good version, if I may impose my opinion.

This isn’t my computer. This is Bryan’s computer (you can tell from the LEDs in all colour and coolness glowing from it).

Should I embrace change, or get comfortable with my old skin?

A question that I have been asking myself consistently lately, as my pen hovers over the contract for Au Pair. A question that I have no answer for. Or rather, a question that I have been scared shitless to answer.

I am pacing to and fro in front of the rabbit hole, wearing a path on the ground and growing a beard (metaphorically, for now). I need someone to push me down.

I am really, really afraid of change. Which is kinda weird, because I really, really want it at the same time. I have a life here – a life I have always dreamt of having. Writing for a living, supportive family and friends, fulfilling days etc. Do I forgo this dream for another dream?

A sage told me in bright red fonts that change is inevitable. Things will change no matter I choose to stay or not. And he didn’t sip his Pepsi this time, so it means he’s really serious. We didn’t even mention his loincloth. It’s that solemn.

And the sage is right, again. Change will take place no matter what I choose to do. I’m not afraid of change, I’m afraid to cause the change. I’m afraid that my life will spiral out of control because of me and my actions. Better to blame life than to blame myself.

Except that it’s not better. In fact, it downright sucks. I want it and it’s right in front of me, but I lack the courage to reach out and grab. I am just staring at it, knowing that it will disappear, but afraid to seize it, lest it bursts in my palm – like a delicate bubble in the afternoon sun.

I need a shove. I need to let go. I need this.

The Man Who Can't be Moved

Sometimes, people tell me “I don’t understand how you can love Malaysia. It’s so [insert negative expressions/profanities/frustrated screams here]!”

And I would smile, thinking to myself, “I don’t know either. But if you love something, you don’t need a reason, because no reason is sufficient anyway.”

Yes, I do love Malaysia. And no, I have never stepped out of this country. I have not seen the rounder moons in foreign lands, nor have I rolled on the greener pastures on the other side. I have never witnessed how clean, well-managed, exhilarating, or liberating other country is. Neither have I enjoyed the freedom, the respect, the tranquility, the romance and the opportunities that they promised.

But you don’t have to caress a thousand different lovers to know who you belong with. Sometimes, you just know. Sometimes, you are just happy and you can’t explain it – as the best kind of happiness often is.

That is not to say I am a Malaysian without complaints. In fact, complaining about everything is what makes being a Malaysian fun. It’s our national identity. It’s both our root, and our route. I once tried to imagine what it would be like if suddenly, our government becomes perfectly brilliant, and our country runs without a glitch, and the rakyat all live happily ever after together with equal respect and equal opportunity… and I shuddered at the thought. That’s not Malaysia lah. That’s a Matrix plot.

But today, I had a tiny idea of why I love my country.

Malaysia always has the ability to tug the strings of my heart, play a note, and keep me completely hooked.

I was driving to Roya’s house, a neighbourhood that has joined many others to plant guard houses and gates in the name of security and peace (i.e. the robbers roam free while the righteous lock themselves up – did I mention that I also love Malaysians for our logic?).

As I turned the corner, I was expecting the usual old but enthusiastic Pak Guard, who would painstakingly double-confirm the street and number of the house I’m visiting, only to repeat the wrong house number back at me. And I would always nod with a smile, and wait patiently for him to grin widely while handing me the visitor’s pass, which he always does.

However, reaching the guard house today, the first thing I noticed was the wide open barrier. My Pak Guard was not guarding the peace and upholding the sanctity of the SS18 streets. He was doing something far holier.

My Pak Guard was praying.

Arms held at eye level and palms opened heavenward, Pak Guard’s wizened eyes were transfixed towards the endless sky, while the soothing morning sunlight shone on his face. The glimmer of divinity, reflected on this simple, devoted being wearing a humble khaki uniform and standing in front of a modest, tiny guard house.

Feet on the brakes, I stared. I wanted to cry.

But my Pak Guard, with all the solemnity of a Man of God, interrupted my melancholic moment with a curt wave of the hand, signaling me to pass. His gazes never broke from his Higher Power; his lips never stopped mouthing the inaudible prayer.

I stepped on the accelerator, and mentally kicked myself for not having a camera, or the free hand to snap the picture perfect moment.

But frankly, I wouldn’t have the courage to capture such a sacred episode. I had neither the right, nor the skill to do justice to that magical instant.

The funny thing is, a picture could tell a thousand words, but some stories are best told in much less.

The funnier thing is, while we complain and vent, a security guard found the reason to praise God.

And maybe, I've found my answer.

Warning: Incoherencies ahead

Yesterday, I laid down my pen. Today, I picked it up again, because you can only ignore a deadline for so long.

I went for a talk on the history of Malaysian student’s movement back in the pre and post Merdeka era, which was enlightening and thought-provoking. A veteran student leader from the 60s was also there as special guest, and when he went on the stage – a casually-dressed Malay man, probably in his 50 or 60s, with a mildly amused, occasionally cheeky expression – something in me bowed.

This man has seen history. Heck, he’s made history. The talk showed newspaper pictures of him protesting and giving talks and sitting in the office of the student body with piles of files (yes, back then UM student body has their own building, cafeteria and even their own scholarship. In comparison, we are fighting for our own parking space in the uni).

And he said something I very much needed to hear. Or rather, he said something that induced me to think of something else, which turned out to be what I really needed to think about. Erm. Well, it happens to me all the time. Song lyrics that I misheard turned out to be inspiring (imagine my embarrassment when I realise the singer has meant something entirely different), and quotes that I remembered wrongly motivated me during my down days.

Perhaps my mind knew the answer all along, it just needed something to explode out of my thick skull. I’ll admit, this is a flimsy explanation. But I’m never much good at figuring out myself.

Anyway, I won’t quote the veteran student leader because I don’t remember what he said exactly. But he was telling us how he had wanted to study medicine but could not afford it, and one of his friends (or teacher?) told him that actually, one more doctor in the world wouldn’t make much of a difference. But if you really believe in being a doctor, then you should change the system so that more poor people can afford to study medicine and be doctors. Something like that.

And that, somehow, answered my inferiority as a writer. Yeah, ingenious writers are abundant in this world. I am but one writer, and wouldn’t really make a difference. The world doesn’t need more writer, but it does need more people who believe in Writing. People who will write because it is what is right, and not merely because it is a job, or a venting tool, or…

Okay, this sounded better in my head. I thought I was inspired, but now I’m not so sure. Everything above reads like blabber.

I’m a writer without a pause.

So why am I posting this other than to waste your time? Because I can. It’s my blog, and high time I start believing it.