I spend ages concerned with concepts, ideas, plots, other people...but seemingly, and more so unapparent I spend less time in action. Doing something is far more tedious than the thought out process for the procrastinator in me.
Recently I have taken to deleting some of my blogs and keeping it within the range of "self thought" and preservation. There are 145 blog entries on this page- are any of them really... OK? I don't want to delete them all in a brash cry of impatience. Even though, lets face it the loss would not be so great.
I've started to look at what I write with a less critical eye and a more productive air- instead of immediately wanting to delete all the words and being impatient with myself I like to think what I could add to make it more readable and what I could take away to make it less a dramatic cry of pretension (although the last three paragraphs are certainly up there with the best of them).
I will always love and use words- there will always be a string of sentences I want to pearl together. Not just for pretty thought sake. It's more so out of necessity. If I do not write everyday I will be restless. The thoughts in my head will build up to such an extent that I will not have room for anything else; just thought. And while that could be a worry, I don't think it is something that will ever happen. There is always a scrap of paper, an almost run out pen. I will always have the ten minutes to scribble down the thought.
Then later on when the day is sleeping and my mind is ready to tell me stories I will look at the crumbled receipt, wonder why I kept it, turn it around in my fingers and find the line. The line in my head that is now a full story.
I'll sigh, start up my near death bed stricken laptop and run my fingers over the letters. Hopefully the string doesn't knot me up in some hopeless case of all night exhaustion.
But if it does, so be it.
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