I have made a vow never to write about writing; now, though I am feeling a deep desire to do it.
This is my fourth cup of coffee in a relatively short time. Why am I doing it? Certainly not because I am that much in love with coffee; it has got something more complex to it. My brain has formed a connection between writing and coffee that now I cannot do the former without having the latter in hand. What is even weirder is that I often wind up forgetting about it until it goes cold. It is as though the mere idea of me having made coffee gives me comfort.
I was not going to write about that in the first place. I was going to write something which typically belongs to my journal but which is also mentioned in it way too much it would be simply boring to repeat it. But then, I could not write it in here. You can just say that I am the closest thing to being allergic when it comes to mentioning something that is deeply me. That kind of what you can call embarrassment completely abandons me when that person I am forsaking detailed things in me to is nothing but a character I have made in a story of mine; I even detest anything I write which does not have me between the lines. In reality, I remain the furthest person from being me.
When the door of my house is closed behind me as I head to the outer world, I undergo a thorough transformation in attitude: I smile, a lot; I use my hands excessively and my voice becomes shrill. The me I know myself as is not any of these. That all takes place when I am talking to people. I do not usually feel nervous on a conscious level but it appears that my unconscious has another say about that.
I have digressed, so back to writing. You know, it is actually like this: I do not put myself into words for the fear of repeating it all again in one of my stories; it is like my stories deserve me more than I deserve myself. That does not irk me in the least. I am only a mortal made of flesh and blood; they on the other hand are Art.
Art runs deeper than flesh and blood.