Most of the time its fragments, I exist in. Fragments of facts, mosaic of memories, pieces of happiness, dots of grief, burst of anger and handful of laughter. Mix it well!
There, you have the recipe of how I live. Even with words… short phrases…disjointed analogies… dissected thoughts barely fitting into pull-over of grammar.
Maybe that’s why … I can never see myself writing one whole book… I have some zillion stories, theories, screenplays, poems, ideas… inside me. Like every body else … I am a barely put-together puzzle of carbon base. And, unlike some of us… and salute to all those who can, so glowingly seduce the language to make such exquisite and sizzling stories; I am limited by my run-on sentences. Am limited by my own parentheses and maybe all I need to do is remove them to make the equation simpler? Or does it complicate matters?
Sometimes I can’t say things all the way, the way they are. Instead, the feeling is simply there, welling up. Like smoke in the air, or the boiling kettle.
And, right now, and I wish I could be more voluble about it...
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