Okay, I am writing again. Not grudgingly as I had, for a while, and no short curt sentences, clipped and to the point (for now, anyhow). Writing reminds me that I feel, because it is a simultaneous thing, to blog and to feel. I will just have to remind myself of existing limits. How much to write, how much to think, and how much to feel. It is very odd, to pack intangible things into neat little packages, put up a little fence round them, and say, stay there, don't move. If you do it frequently enough, perhaps your mind becomes something like a zoo-- many many rows of barred-up enclosures, neatly parted into rows, pretty and presentable and open to public exhibition. You'd know exactly where you put your stuff, what you think, how you feel, and so does everybody else. Otherwise they can read the neat little explanatory tags at the corner of your enclosures, and be immediately enlightened.

It would be quite uncomplicated, and no one will ever complain how hard it is to understand people anymore.

Do you like to go to the zoo? I used to love it, as a kid, to skip up and down neatly paved tracks, staring wide-eyed at the prowling animals, taking the monorail with the loudspeakers introducing the various attractions you see. But then the novelty wears off after a while. It's exciting to visit it once in blue moon, but even then we have tired, bored adults going "but why on earth do you want to visit the zoo again? haven't you already seen it all?"

You probably didn't understand them, these cynical adults who never enjoyed going to the zoo (they have no concept of fun, you think) but then as you grow older you begin to see some sense in the pointlessness of seeing things boxed in and compartmentalised (like the rest of your life). Living, breathing creatures, no less, and now you perceive how boring it must be for these mobile creatures ("wildlife"! oh, the irony) born into captivity.

Hmm. I think I digressed. But no matter. Fluidity is a luxury you must allow for once in a while, if only to allow yourself revel temporarily in the wisp of freedom, where you aren't pressed to explain exactly what you mean before you yourself had the grasp of what is going on yet. Where is the beauty in that? What stems from intuition and feeling degenerates into something practical, structured, trivialised, when you ask what, why, how come, and so?, therefore?, break them down into little pieces with analysis and then form a diplomatic conclusion, and decide that you have known all that there is to it.

But we do that all the time anyhow. It's integrated the very manner in which we learn. How nice it would be, to play the role of the writer once in a while, being vague, subverting expectations, rejecting binaries, leaving the ending open, unresolved, and then quirk an eyebrow at your readers and say, interpret it how you wish. And leave the feverish critiques breaking down your every word to attempt to deliver structured, wordy, confused cheem theories for the students to dissect. Blow your story out of proportions, perhaps, and draw deep inferences and deconstruct and flip it all around in a myraid of difficult four-syllable terms, so that your simplest character becomes a complicated, conflicted being, a stereotypical representation of the human condition, perhaps... But still you will write, because there will be precious few people in this world who will read your story as it is, appreciate the nuances, perhaps even nod with understanding at places where language fails to suffice.

(But the irony! This, coming from a lit student who has to analyse and dissect and structure arguments to explain so many, many stories... *groans*)

How silly things are sometimes.

Ah well. Whatever works. At least *glances at the rest of the entry* at least the writing is back, now =)