A Writer’s Mind

It’s been awhile since I’ve written a new article here and appreciate those who have consistently sent me feedback and messages even with my absence. Not that I have run out of ideas but my time just have to be solely utilized to finishing the book the past few weeks. The schedule has long been overdue and so I was obliged to make up.

The last weekend was spent at Mama’s sparing some moments to brief her of my recent escapades. I barely talk much about my writing for obvious reasons but then she required some particulars about it. The safest I could come up with was “feminist perspective and human behavior.” My parents are a little conservative and probably unaware of the eccentricities of modern society. It’s the best I could to string her away from possible heart attack knowing further details.

Out of the usual conversation context, she asked about the manner I write. I thought, This isn’t going very well. Should I tell her I —- everytime? It’s probably not ethical either to dispose it in public. Well let me explain the simplest terms how Blackwidow’s writings come to pieces…

You can call it psychosis or any other form of behavior irregularities but my mind talks nonchalantly when room is conquered by defeaning silence. It speaks of random phrases subconsciously guided by some unknown persona. There’s “parasitic urges of the groin,” “fruits of passion,” “shadows of his debts,” some of which are beating my head like a broken recorder to be written. And so I submit. The disturbing thing is that, somehow it affects my social affairs, momentarily creeping while engaged in a conversation. It’s like floating in mid-air purgatory, wandering two different worlds at a time.

Then there’s the depth of emotions spurred by certain situations. I am a walking masterpiece of hollow feelings. That’s when I dissociate from everyone. Fear, anger, pain, joy… Name all other emotions and I feel it with extremity anytime. anywhere.

I have to also blame my obsessive compulsion nature for details. When out of my apartment, the neuron-abiding units are hyperactively sending messages by the fastest millisecond, assessing every information captured through senses. I take it all exhaustingly–behavior of people, direction where they’re going, faces, clothing, mutterings, etc. I just can’t stop it. It could be an acquired habit or instinct but it uses me until the commanding officer slaves the hands.

There are moments when I feel like writing as an illness. I want to believe that this is just a normal addiction. The truth, which I hate to admit is, without the pen and paper.. I’m just an insane character.

 

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Abby Mabb

Snarly female. Occasional book reviewer.

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