Wow. Already halfway through Jan. Time is passing quick lately and it seems to be going even faster when I think "I haven't written in awhile"
"I haven't written in awhile" Begins as a lighthearted remark i'll make to myself. A small smile follows, with the confidence that in a day or two i'll write..something. At the very least..something. But sometimes the stretches go longer than that. Months may pass, and i'll say to myself quite alarmingly "I haven't written in..forever" And then begins a cold sweat with the thought that I may never write again. Something isn't right when I don't write.
This is my first foray back into the blog. It gathers dust that I sometimes blow away and furiously refill with poems and thoughts. I consider myself like many other "bloggers" (people who use blogs) because we all have this idea in our heads about what the blog will be. It will be the greastest blog of all time! A true testament to my writing abilities. And the notoriety that will come forth..I'll be famous! Instead, we tend to post sparingly and gaps between those posts increase as our lives ask for attention elsewhere.
Here I am, drinking a coors light and feeling quite depressed about my headphones breaking. For three reasons actually. One, it just sucks when headphones break. Two, I had bought these headphones in order to use the attached microphone. The whole idea was that I'd start (again) a famous audio podcast that would replicate and supercede all of my favourite podcasts. Didn't happen. Actually found it quite difficult to speak into a microphone completely by myself. Three, the headphones didn't just stop working. The audio is all warped like someone is yelling at me from down a long auditorium. So, my headphones are dying and i'm witness to it.
Besides the dead headphones i'm also transferring 300 GB of data from my laptop on to an external HD. Two hours left...This explains why I'm here writing this.
I had another dream the other day. It will probably make it's way into a compilation of writing I'm working on. Poetry that Dreams are Made Of. It involves a forest and a strange man. Inticing, I know. But these dreams are so vivid and inspiring that I've had to do something with them. They don't fade away like other dreams. They stick and demand something from me. As if I'll always wrestle with the memory until I put it on the page. To place things on a page is to rationalize to a certain point. It's to pass something from your mind on to the page. Or canvas for you artists. When you pick up a piece of paper it is quite light. But the weight in your head can be lifted by placing it on this piece of paper which miraculously has no trouble hearing you out.
Leave it to me to get all geeked out about a furiously written upon page. Take a blank page and fill it with streaks of ink. Blots of blue and red rage. Compare empty to full. Take an empty ballroom (how my broken headphones sound) and infiltrate that room screaming your head off. Fill. Create. Be.
The strange man in the forest terrified me. But in the back of my head I knew he was right. I'll tell that story soon.
-Dev
