Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Annual Breakdown
Greetings and good night, friends.
Picture in your head, a young person sprawled out with a laptop at their fingers, fighting to find a single topic to blog about. I can't believe it. All this world, complete with oceans, mountains, life and death, and all I'm looking for is a single, stinkin' topic.
Or, to be forward: the willingness to sit down and speak my subconscious to you.
I was thinking earlier today, as I often do, about time. The subject presented itself as my dear mum and I made an appointment for the month of November. November. November...? Geez, just think off everything that will have happened between now and then. More and more, I start to realize just what might happen. Anything! Anything at all! We see things while they're happening, and we see things in hindsight. But we can't foresee them anymore than we can see through walls and in the dark. Time is kind of like the "walls" and "darkness". Or, if you are The Doctor, it is "Wibbly-wobbly timey-whimey stuff".
---But we all knew that, right?
I've also been pondering over how better to run and write a blog. One does not simply blog and have the outcome magically interesting and engaging.
...It's almost like I need a theme, or some sort of organization to really become a whole-hearted, fully-fledged blogger.
But what do I write of?
My day?
My feelings?
The color of my socks??
Is there really a place for my so-called "Salad Bugs"? Is there truly a readership for my hum-drum and dryly mellow dramatic poems? And what about the obviously uninspired YouTube posts, where the only thing that I can muster is a quick HTML code or two??
I've discovered that there is a pattern.
Every so often, yours truly hits her "whoa is me" cycle and tumbles into whining smithereens about failing life in the blogosphere. I've complained before, I'm complaining now, I shall complain again.
In the meantime of all of my complainingness, I believe I will be sitting here beneath the bluster of my lovely ceiling fan, waiting from some lighting bolt of the heavens to strike me and present a solution to my arguably non-existent troubles.
'Till then,
Kismint
Picture in your head, a young person sprawled out with a laptop at their fingers, fighting to find a single topic to blog about. I can't believe it. All this world, complete with oceans, mountains, life and death, and all I'm looking for is a single, stinkin' topic.
Or, to be forward: the willingness to sit down and speak my subconscious to you.
I was thinking earlier today, as I often do, about time. The subject presented itself as my dear mum and I made an appointment for the month of November. November. November...? Geez, just think off everything that will have happened between now and then. More and more, I start to realize just what might happen. Anything! Anything at all! We see things while they're happening, and we see things in hindsight. But we can't foresee them anymore than we can see through walls and in the dark. Time is kind of like the "walls" and "darkness". Or, if you are The Doctor, it is "Wibbly-wobbly timey-whimey stuff".
---But we all knew that, right?
I've also been pondering over how better to run and write a blog. One does not simply blog and have the outcome magically interesting and engaging.
...It's almost like I need a theme, or some sort of organization to really become a whole-hearted, fully-fledged blogger.
But what do I write of?
My day?
My feelings?
The color of my socks??
Is there really a place for my so-called "Salad Bugs"? Is there truly a readership for my hum-drum and dryly mellow dramatic poems? And what about the obviously uninspired YouTube posts, where the only thing that I can muster is a quick HTML code or two??
I've discovered that there is a pattern.
Every so often, yours truly hits her "whoa is me" cycle and tumbles into whining smithereens about failing life in the blogosphere. I've complained before, I'm complaining now, I shall complain again.
In the meantime of all of my complainingness, I believe I will be sitting here beneath the bluster of my lovely ceiling fan, waiting from some lighting bolt of the heavens to strike me and present a solution to my arguably non-existent troubles.
'Till then,
Kismint
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