If this doesn't make sense to you, then I will find a way to make it make sense. Make it make sense, it makes sense when you have bills to pay and you kill to play and you eat avant-garde cucumber pickles simply to make it all go away.
It takes me years to answer a simple question, a question of self-contentedness mixed with a trickle of unabashed shame. Questioning the reality of the questioning world, I wonder if I can ever find the old energy that made me write without a care in the world. Now, I find myself segmenting paragraphs into sentences into words into phonemes and wishing for the incessant allure of posh writing that I am certain will eventually be washed away like the grains of sand on Jupiter. Either that, or my writing will collapse under its own weight of boring rhetoric.
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What was the point of writing this post? To write something down that maybe I'll stumble upon another time and wonder why I couldn't just write a damn book already. Can't writing be down collaboratively? I'm alarmed and sobered by the fact that 99.99% of my time spent writing, I have spent writing by myself.
One of the things that has kept this blog alive for me is the comments. With Google+ disappearing in April, I might try and revamp the comments to make it more interactive and less blocky. Unfortunately, I'm not great at layout/design work because I just want to write something down whenever I end up at my blog place and so I never end up focusing on the user experience too much.
If you're a visual learner like I tend to be, you might like this picture instead. It is something I cooked and it was just as tasty as it looks, which might mean different things to you than to me but anyway, it was nourishing.
Karma Aspiration Linger Entity Iodine Darwin Overcast Ulysses Grievous Hawt Spectre Citron Ophilia Philharmonic Eyeless.
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