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It's late, almost midnight. I'm tired, wanting to go to bed and disconnect from the world for a few hours, and yet I want to write.
About what? About nothing in particular, I just feel the need to move my fingers and see the letters appear one by one on the computer screen. I have many half-finished texts, and many others that I plan to write, as well as a big project that I don't dare to start, but right now I don't want to write any of that.
Writing is a strange phenomenon. When you want to write something good, simply, or it doesn't come out, or you're not in the mood, or you don't have the necessary time for it. And on other occasions, like now, one has the need to write, but instead of doing it about something pending, you start to ramble —as I am doing at this moment— on the keyboard.
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Perhaps it is because writing, beyond what it generates as a final product, be it poetry, prose, short stories, novels, etc., is an end in itself, and writers (those of us who write), are like those people with a compulsive need to speak, and they make conversation even out of stones, only we do it with the written word, instead of the spoken word.
At this moment, as in many others, I could write for hours if it weren't for the fatigue and for the "small" detail that I have nothing in particular to write about, and although this can sometimes be an ideal scenario for unexpected discoveries that they appear "out of nowhere", I think I'll leave it here for today, with the hope that when morning dawns, I can recover, even a little, this itching in my fingers that can only be removed by writing, even if it is, like in this occasion, a couple of totally random reflections on the writing process.
Thank you very much for reading the honest, if most likely irrelevant, product of that itch, and see you tomorrow. Good night.
©bonzopoe, 2023.
Thank you very much for reading this post and dedicating a moment of your time. Until next time and remember to leave a comment.
