Thursday, September 20, 2007

If writing were a footrace, I would probably be a sprinter, hardly a marathoner (BY THE WAY, since people who take part in pentathlons are called pentathletes, why aren't people who participate in marathons called marathletes?) (: You know, unless it's something that I'm really interested in, I find it difficult to summon material past the 700-word mark. This precludes series of short writings that I sometimes do, where each component is separate entity, if you can call it that.

I like to think of every piece as a sentient being - aware of every change in punctuation, awkward when there are errors in syntax, akin to a child afflicted by Trisomy 21 (i.e. Down Syndrome). Sometimes if I am forced to ramble on for too long, whatever I'm writing will take on a life of its own. Strictly speaking, I have little control over its meanderings... Feels a little odd when I'm tasked to write an essay. The word-minimum/limit makes things feel altogether quite unsettling. Sometimes it's too long, and it's overkill and other times it's a truncated piece of shit. The ones I hate most, the ones that are crushed up and left to languish amidst yoghurt cups and Milo packets, the ones that I'd rather burn than hand in; are the ones that are souls in limbo, commuters in transit.

Consider the chrysalis: not lively, but hardly lifeless - the perfect example of an article stranded in mid formation. The Caterpillar its architect, and the Butterfly its progeny (moths are a bit drab). I suppose one could argue that the Chrysalis has every right to be appreciated as is, but it is difficult to assert that the Chrysalis has any extrinsic worth. There is no doubt that the Chrysalis is essential in the life cycle of the Butterfly/Caterpillar (which are one and the same, albeit at different stages of development) but one can hardly call it finished. It gives no clue of life within, itself appearing insensate and inanimate. A Chrysalis is not a whole, it is incomplete, placidly In Transition. Some of my essays end up as chrysalises - extremely ungainly, ambling toward no apparent destination, and ultimately self-destructive.

If you asked me whether I find writing hard, the answer would be that I find writing incredibly difficult. It's not difficult in terms of getting the words to flow, but it's extremely tricky directing that deluge in an appropriate manner, where it might serve as irrigation (not irritation), hydration, or simply an aesthetic channel through which some sail through.

Do I enjoy it? Good question.
I appreciate pain and pleasure
in equal measure.

- This is the filling of many.
by @ 7:31 PM