(no subject)
there is a box. i keep it next to my bed, well hidden.
i dont necessarily worry that someone will open it and run, aghast, from the shocking contents
in reality, all i have in there are about 100 scraps of paper
its what is on them that matters..
when i am somewhere away from my 'puter, i sometimes catch bolts of inspiration.
almost like i can finally put words to a feeling
that had, before that point, remained nameless, wordless - merely a passing feeling.
its actually kind of corny
but i dont want the moments to extinguish.
so i snatch paper, any paper, and i write in a blind flurry of motion exactly what my mind is forming
im completely and totally detached from the writing
it is literally coming out of my head through my hand.
anywho, at the end of every day i put these scraps in the box
i dont read them
i dont know what half of them say
im blind when i write them and deliriously forgetful after they are down.
but someday, sometime, ill make full stories out of them
i dont necessarily worry that someone will open it and run, aghast, from the shocking contents
in reality, all i have in there are about 100 scraps of paper
its what is on them that matters..
when i am somewhere away from my 'puter, i sometimes catch bolts of inspiration.
almost like i can finally put words to a feeling
that had, before that point, remained nameless, wordless - merely a passing feeling.
its actually kind of corny
but i dont want the moments to extinguish.
so i snatch paper, any paper, and i write in a blind flurry of motion exactly what my mind is forming
im completely and totally detached from the writing
it is literally coming out of my head through my hand.
anywho, at the end of every day i put these scraps in the box
i dont read them
i dont know what half of them say
im blind when i write them and deliriously forgetful after they are down.
but someday, sometime, ill make full stories out of them