Saturday, November 19, 2011

I wasn't really planning to write here again. It didn't make much sense. There was some contradiction, a knot, a lie, a sense of loss and reason - it went. I now write a weekly column for the paper I edit. The paper isn't very well read so I have to put it on Facebook a lot. Most times I like what I write, the rest snuggles in deep perversion. Yet it's writing which keeps me on.

In ancient times, the lines between art, writing and magic weren't blurred. Today it's much the same, but the belief is gone. They call casting magic spells (spelling), don't they? The purpose of art is to directly or indirectly create illusions. Any piece of art, writing, music or stage that distracts or stimulates you is in one sense or another a show of magic.

I'm not going to bother to read back what I've just written. Hopefully, you find some sense here. Although readers of this blog would know that sense is always frowned upon and blurred with obscurity. Reason is merged with darkness. What could one liken to moist thighs?

I've quit smoking btw. It's true. It's been about 10 days. It's killing. I feel so exhilarated at times. There's been an immense rush of energy. Cravings stab me sometimes. I can't go back to lighting up because the doctor says it'll kill me. I would much rather die. But I can't or I won't cause I'm in love. Not love, love. But a very hopeless love. Very broken love. Goodbye for now. I'm back because you asked me so. And there's no artist who doesn't enjoy an applause even after the curtain falls.
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