April 12, 2014


This is just an exercise, a wild, frenzied foray into the art of storytelling--a truth-spinning act that I am both rusty and extremely nervous about carrying out.  Writing, contrary to my opening sentence, has tended to always be my fallback action, something that I fell back into doing when I wanted to escape the then-present time.  If it wasn't writing, it was reading, for which my vision did not thank me for as I got older, for I am as blind as a bat and as frustrated as one in daytime when in a throng of people.  As a child, books were my constant companions with whom I could converse and relate to through reading, which, when faced with people who were less than kind, was a welcome sign of relief.  Lost in thought--this phrase chiefly characterized my awkward formative years.

The phrase "lost in thought" has also been used to describe some of the most enigmatic (or conversely, truly underrated) literary characters in the history of literature to date, who were of course thought up by some seriously talented, humble writers--many of whom were, themselves, awkward and perpetually "lost in thought."

Give me a book, and I will be happy.

Give me some scratch paper, and I will write you a story...

Storytelling is a scary act because it reveals the very marrow of the soul.  Imprinted in the words on the page are various subtexts that, when read carefully, divulge our very fears and desires, our hopes and dreams (lived through the characters, of course).  Storytelling metaphorically strips you of your clothing, leaving you bare with only your emotionally-driven mind to see you though.  This nerve-inducing act of telling stories leaves one painfully bare-boned, yet somehow something deeper arises in the thickness of this anxiety and fear--wafts through the air like thick tendrils of fog along the Golden Gate.

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