Writing is not a dialectic thought process, it's scattered with lateral inquiries, non linear expounding. For these very reasons, I sit in awe of those that can write novels. My mind is that of a daydreamer, I'm here one moment, gone the next. The pensive ability to write a concisely articulate manifesto has never been within my grasp, and might never be, usurping me for eternity. Give me a computer, a blurb about a current event and you'll have an elucidated opinion piece, voila!, complete with a healthy smattering of humor and self degradation.
Writing that's been planned to a T is both boring to read and transparently contrived. Being put on the spot is where you find the most raw of epiphanies. They're broken down into their most simple of forms, no time for complexities and derivatives, or to mask the naked truth of what you really desire to say. I know it sounds like I'm advocating not thinking, nay, I'm saying go with your visceral instinct and you're ablution will be that much more gratifying.
I find on a daily basis, that I'm looking around, observing insignificant things about people, buildings, minute details that neither matter nor anyone else cares to notice. Has my mind slipped into a realm of existence where I break everything down for my own satisfaction? Why has my mind moved into this alternate reality and am I the only one here? Is my mind on the search for perpetual stimulation or has the hand of senility prematurely ensnared me within it's grasps? I can't help but think that my left "handedness" has doomed me in a right-handed world; like trying to fit a square peg in a round hole. Each day feels like on step closer to a mental purgatory , as if everyone's aware of some secret I'm utterly unaware of, adding dramatic irony to an already ardent pilgrimage. No Apologies, I Don't Think Before I Speak
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