My life revolves around screens and spaces — too much of the former, and not enough of the latter. Of course, this isn’t a new phenomenon to my life, nor is it specific to myself either but still, the heuristic interjection of an idea and a story that writes itself is a transliteration process that rarely occurs. In other words, it’s been hard trying to write an article everyday.
So far I mused about Markov Chains, found the elusive satisfaction of writing with proper capitalisation, realised the insanity of living unmedicated, cried about mathematics, and contemplated the finality of age.
Sitting and typing at home has made me realise that the inherent regenerative approach to writing can and will persist even without a physical space. I don’t ever know what I will write about or whether I have something profound to say but I now know that I can exist on screens and in corners of the internet and still put out twenty articles of thoughts and words for the month.
Donald Miller wrote “I tell good stories in books. I don’t live good stories… People who live good stories are too busy to write about them. Nobody ever strapped a typewriter to the back of an elephant and wrote a novel while hunting wild game.” This is comforting because as our world encourages adventure for a better story, it seems that the only way to writing a great story is by taking steps towards the latter. That we sit down, let prose compose itself of many pieces and many voices, and fragment itself in beautiful and profound ways. Had we not, there would be no time to write it.
Maybe living a boring and uneventful life has deceived me so far in believing that I can’t write good stories but I think my pieces are special in spite of that, or more precisely, maybe because of that.