Text.

Pages of it have been spewed out on the floor, motionless, random, pointless, absurd. But in all is such a hidden dynamica on a steady path of convergence to one probable outcome, untimed and presumed. Yet it does take shape, the longer you stare at it, and I feel like I’ve been staring for years, reading the random spill of letters, life’s notes written for me in evil tongues, running a spectrum of emotions from bafflement to boredom, at times sparse and drenched in reverb of the immediate past, at times exhilarating…
My comfort shell – totally insular and socially autistic, the past months did not seem to fit for the role of a writer or a blogger. So throw in some meditation (i.e. trip to London), meetings, decisions and inspiration and you get a pot of magic brew, brimful – good enough to cast love spells….or produce even more text – raw unedited text, the stream of consciousness text, the kind of text I love.
Text…
…riddled with symbolism and hidden meanings. Letters aligned to the page, poised so casually on top of each line that it’s almost sexual. But behind the reading and the research... behind the text is one thought, that I’m killing time ‘til five o’clock.