Writing and Me

Please read: I was in a woozy and ramshackle state when I wrote this, so I don’t really know what the intention was. Don’t be mean. I wrote this a while ago, but there's something so raw, so naked, that keeps bringing it back to my mind.

It’s hard to describe why exactly I like writing. Obviously I admire storytelling and artistry, but the actual process of writing is quite different to simply creating worlds and characters. It’s an odd sensation to say the least; ostensibly it involves having a good range of language, and knowing how to creatively apply it. But that’s not quite it. Actually Sitting down, on a keyboard is exhilarating, like a drug. There’s a sudden, sweeping feeling of elevation, as my fingers quickly click and clunk, working in what I can only describe as instinctual copasetic synergy. Such enervation. It’s like your fingers are connected to the world of Tron (Trontopia??). My mind does not register its fingers individual movements; instead it seems stuck in some abstract holy land of rhythms, ideas, and emotions,  desperately attempting to interweave them. I think it’s all in my mind, the stories I mean. Seriously, I think the whole goddamn works of Shakespeare number two are stuck in there; it just doesn’t transfer through my digitally seduced fingers.

- Taha