There is a problem. Daydreaming has become a habit. It has overtaken all things. It has got to the point where these mad divergences into the imagination have spilled out of the fingers and become real. All reality is at risk. Nonsense has overridden sanity. Imaginary friends have been re-labelled as characters. The lunacy has become accepted by the ones we expect to be most rational; the literary folk.
Farewell normality. Welcome to the world of the author.
Every tendon from my shoulder to my finger tips are crying out to turn this into fiction. I want to write about the beginning of all this writing, “You there. At the back. Stop daydreaming!” said the retarded fucking teacher.
And so it would continue. But I must resist. We all know how that goes. The supressed creative mistook for an idiot. Whose fault is it that something the teacher said sent your mind into a spiral of questions and possibilities? And why is that such a bad thing? Daydreaming is less often born from boredom, and more from inspiration.
Writing is a cherished folly. Writing is applied daydreaming. That is all. For now. Soon I will come back to this blog and write something worthwhile. The beast must be fed.
I don’t know why I put a picture of a shoe at the beginning of this.