Time. We spend so much of it thinking about our immediacies.
We what we want because we want it. We need it because we want it. We crave it because we don’t have it. When we get it, we’re happy, life is good.
Do we increase happiness? Do we maintain it? Does it replace other needs? Is it happiness, or is it distraction? Is it the high we get from fresh, from new, from the feeling of recent acquisitions?
Yet, some have less and some need less. And some have less than they need, and this struggle is very real back home. So much so, it makes me put things into perspective a lot of the time.
I still don’t know how to deal. I think figuring it out is what I so want, it’s now a need.
Okay, let’s give this the 30th try.
I figure if I’m persistent enough, one day I’ll manage to have a blog the way I did before Microsoft decided to wipe off Live Spaces with little notice.
At least 5 years worth of nonsense were lost that time. Nonsense and ideas expressed in abstract ways. They were my wishes, my whims, my venting. So dissapointed was I with the lack in reliability of online publishing, its temporal and fragile nature, that I decided to limit journaling to a strictly offline, by the bedside type of activity.
Back then my english was less perfect than it is today. My thoughts were free, fragmented and naive. I would pick the scattered pieces of ideas and arranged them into sentences, into lyrics, into flawed poetry and free flowing prose. And then would I put it out there for the world to read, thus consummating my memories.
I called it A Senseful of Fiction because that was all it was, and it was all mine.
Here’s to a new Beginning.