A lot of writers out there seem to like music as a background when they’re writing, for the mood, the atmosphere. I get that, but… I also like the silence. Quiet. Sitting alone at the keyboard and tapping away with no sound except for the keys beneath my fingers and the thoughts swirling into my head. Thoughts that condensing into words so they can get out, and unfurling like a flower, into sentences, paragraphs, coherent streams of thought. My favorite usually being when they squirm out more or less intact. See, the actual activity of writing is a sort of sacred act.
It’s a process of wearing away at the barrier separating my thoughts, feelings, and imaginings from the rest of the world. From your thoughts, feelings, and imaginings. In a way I almost think I’m dissolving pieces of myself, pieces that hide me from prying eyes, judgmental thoughts. Little by little I chip away at that multi-dimensional barrier and every time I do it seems to lead to a small taste of satisfaction. Not that it ever lasts, but desire is just an intangible hunger. You’ve got to keep devouring, struggling for more satisfaction, pleasure, power, fulfillment…
Or you can starve I guess. I know that’s what most people seem to allow for, holding back out of the expectations of everyone around them, out of conditioned ideas of selflessness, even out of their own fear. That last one is maybe the stupidest reason too. If you don’t eat you don’t live. That much is just as true of the spirit as it ever is of the body.
It feels more directly like exposing myself when I write here, as opposed to the stories and fragments of fictional fantasy I’ve written on Sparks of Insanity. One of the best ways to overcome that being to disassociate a little. Remove myself. Talk about things outside of myself, and not thinking about how everything I write (here or otherwise) actually comes from within, reveals what’s inside of me. Exposes me, one glimpse at a time.