Why Write?

"Breathe. Don't think only those who sing need breathe, or those who talk. They breathe more obviously, but you still have to breathe..."

She could not. She forgot.

***

"Why write?" she obviously had no idea.

But her eyes were fixed on her computer screen, typing away furiously. Writing wasn't limited to pen and paper anymore...there were keyboards, palmtops, number pads...there were so many different ways she could write. Writing took the forms of so many unconventional modes.

She still chose to blog.

The keyboard was her friend. The weblog was her diary. Writing was her life.

She had no idea what to do other than blog. Asking her to speak to someone seemed like a surmountable task. Written words were the only means for her to convey how she thought. Yet, so often was it misinterpreted, used against her, causing her to close up so much more.

It actually made her so vulnerable. She was stripped naked by Words. Her inner feelings were exposed, completely bare. It was probably as terrible as her life could get- while trying to hide everything, she revealed much more about herself, her inner nature, the unchartered waters of her life...

Her heart sank. Words began to take her over again.

It amazed her how her life could be summed up with Words. How Words was about the most powerful form to express oneself. There had been so much said about the power of multimedia, and how writing or reading had been long considered as passe. Yet, the power of books have been ever-prevalent. You could see how many people still, although secretly, sink into the fantasy of books, and drown themselves in the sea of words. Writing was still important, because words meant so much.

The one good thing about writing was that there were no ratings. She could write as she liked. Hopefully not slandering lest she get sued. In any case, she could choose not to publish her blogpost, or book, or whatever form of writing she had.

Movies, however, had ratings- G, PG, PG-13, NC-16, M18, R21- in her country alone. Books had none. Of course they were classified into different sections like fiction and non-fiction, children and adults, and a whole variety of genres, but who cares. There was pratically no limit on what you could write about. And there definitely was no control on who would be reading it. Have you ever seen a librarian chase a child away from the romance section in the library, or confiscicating books with sexual content? Obviously not. Who knows, there might be a priest somewhere reading a book about atheism or darwinism or the big-bang theory. And he might actually have been convinced.

That's what she admired the most. The power of Words.

She stared into the screen again.

Her lines were incoherent. But she understood. Words meant something to her.

Words. He was her best friend.

Writing made her feel like she had conquered the Everest, and was taking in the scenery from there. It was so...carefree. In a world of her own, taking in every single sight around her. It released her from her oppression, her frustration, her unhappiness.

***

"I write therefore I am." It made more sense to her than Cognito Ergo Sum.

It was about the only thing which kept her breathing.

She breathed. She finally remembered how to breathe.

----------------

I think it sounds very much like ranting...but hey, it does make some sense(: (i think)

love,

Annaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa(:

55 Fiction Spam

I AM HERE TO SPAM 55 FICTION AT YOU.

Eight stories. Eight lives. Eight pieces of my soul, posted here for your reading pleasure.

WARNING: Number 3, Son of Sam, contains a few words which some of you may find offensive. We're all big girls now, so don't flame me or something because of my vocabulary. Just skip it if you don't like swear words.


1) Depravity

“But I don’t want to go among mad people!” Alice protested, struggling wildly against the leather straps that bound her to the chair. The assembled members of the tea party remained silent and still, except for the cat. ”Oh you can’t help that…we’re all a bit mad here,” it purred, grinning, displaying very human teeth.

2) Descent

It burns, the sun. It burns his flesh and blinds his eyes, and makes him run, dignity abandoned, back into darkness, cool darkness. Makes him forget the experience of age, the light reduces him to a child, running from the bogeyman. He descends to his coffin; the sun rising is a daily apocalypse for vampires.

3) Son of Sam

“I do not like green eggs and ham,” insisted the child, face stubborn. “I do not like them, Sam I am,” he repeated, earning a withering glance from his mother. She wished her husband hadn’t started the kid on this crap. “Your name isn’t Sam, it’s Harry, now eat your fucking breakfast,” she snapped, pissed.

4) Haemophilia

“Mummy,” he said, “I think I’m turning into a werewolf.” She smiled at him fondly, her darling son; still so young and innocent. It would be quite a while until he became a mature adult, contributing to society. “All in good time, dear,” she said. “Now go and brush your face.” He skipped off obediently.

5) Dreams VS Reality

He bounced the ball, frowning, concentrating. Sweat poured down his forehead. It poured hot and salty down his back in steady rivulets. The sun burned down, hot and bright and very real. He lined up his shot, worn trainers pounding the court. He shot, he scored; for a moment the arcing ball eclipsed the sun.

6) Dedication

“I think I love him,” she murmured, twining her hair around her finger. Remembering his soft dark hair, his constantly averted eyes, his adorably shy smile. Remembering a hug, supposedly between friends, soft and sweet and comforting, limbs intertwined, neither daring to speak, for fear of ending the moment. “I really think I love him.”

7) Requires careful handling

“Hey,” he said,” Are your hands bigger than mine?” He held out an open hand for comparison, and she realized that she would actually have to touch him now. Suddenly slightly breathless, she rolled up her sleeve and gently laid her hand upon his. For someone with such skinny wrists, he had pretty big hands.

8) The One Word

She said the word freely to her friends; they did mean a lot to her. She rarely said it to her parents, and when she did she rarely meant it; they had, after all, committed the original sin. But she had never said the word to him; probably because he meant the most to her.


I'm no expert. Constructive criticism appreciated. <3, Nana (315)

Anna's 4x55(:

Crane
I was stuck on solid blue. My wings stiff and angled, unable to budge an inch. Within me the folds rigid and sharp, my feathers plastered in one piece, the glossy surface glinting under the light above. The chilly wind blew the squared sheets lying next to me...And an instruction sheet on “origami cranes” (55 words WHOO!)

The million dollar question
“If I had a million dollars...” she thought, unable to continue with her next lines. There's nothing much with a million dollars anyway...you don't magically disappear or attain immortality. Well, but with the million dollars you wouldn't be stuck here as “she” and thinking of an impactful 55 fiction essay and a suitable conclusion. (55 words too!)

W.B.
Pure and white, W.B. stood tall with pride...upright- almost as straight as the wall. Everyone's gaze was fixed on him, not in mesmerization, but in sheer boredom. A yawn. “Am I that boring?” No one seemed to notice or care. Instead, ink splattered over him- red, blue, black, green. A holler. “Students! Focus now!” ( YESSSS 55!)

Future
It pulsated. Swelling, red, sharp, jutting out. She refused to accept this, but there was no stopping The Happening. It had already been done. Tears flowed down her eyes as she thought of her ruined future. “I'm really sorry...” he was remorseful. What could she do now?

She couldn't play piano with a finger injury.

(FINALLY 55:D)

Yayyyy(:

love,
Anna