I swear I’m writing. Not here no. And not as much as you want me to. But I am writing nonetheless.

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Lately I’ve only been able to think when I’m writing. So even with silly things, some power seems to put down this massive brick over my brain stopping it from all activity. The ears would barely be processing any input as well. I have to pick up a pen and write. Then, and only then am I able to comprehend and then If wanted/needed analyze.

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I wish I could analyze more thoughts.
I wish I can explain to you/in words about the different kinds of pain.
I wish I can show you how my fingers almost bleed as I go at my typewriter with all the strength I can pull together.
I wish I can.

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I am making a list, of things to think/write about -since the 2 actions are to be connected from now on-. So maybe for future titles I can have: On craved attention. Or: On true excellence. On stringed conversations. On exhausted imaginations. On imperfect masks. On semi-controlled daydreams. On failed experiments.

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I was thinking. All the big writers are old ones. No -present- thing or person is yet to touch their writings or come even close. I can imagine all old writers typing their literature straight onto a typewriter. And I can see them fussing over minor mistakes, ink and straight lines. At the other end of the spectrum lies the time the typewriter gives you to think as you type. You can think things through. It’s a slow -and may i add again, finger hurting- process. It also provides space for lost connections between thoughts which can be used effectively to enhance the readers’ imagination. So writers nowadays seem to not be writing at all. And maybe even way back then, maybe these great names weren’t writing either. Maybe it was just fingers, time and an old typewriter. Maybe that was just it.

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