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I’m blank. I always knew I would get to this point; where there’s finally no topic which seems plausible enough to write about. Whenever I attempt to type, it’s basically pieces of short paragraphs of uncoordinated and incoherent topics which I end up deleting before I disappoint myself with embarrassment.I pride myself with being able to squeeze out seemingly interesting details from most tedious and boring of topics; my life is quite droll and I’m plagued with the need to see the humour and light side of any subject.

But of recent, my days have been quite boring and filled with angst; routine everyday stuff with barely anything out of the ordinary. The result is me running out of ideas on what to do. There’s barely so much milk you can squeeze from the teats of an anorexic cow. So here I am, staring at the screen of my laptop, wishing by God that there was some exciting tale or topic I could pump you with. Is this my last bit? The fact that writing stuff is part of my core makes it all even harder. I might just have to kill this side of me…

… or come up with something new. Rise up from literary ashes like the proverbial phoenix. I know, locked in me somewhere, is a load of untapped potential and I’m too timid to unlock it. Maybe it’s because it could come out raw and the process of refining takes a toll and time. Maybe it’s because I’m too lazy to stress my brain. See, the option available to me is fictional writing and you know the stress that comes with fictional writing. It’s a different ballpark from the stuff I fool around with here. I’ve tried my hands on it and though it seems quite amazing, I’m scared of telling stories. Stories are too long and complex, no matter how simple they seem. I worry I get too lazy or bored to finish it. I am armed with enough material to write a thousand pages of stories. A thousand pages!!! Think of all the stress that would go into writing, proof-reading and the rest of the whole shebang. Now look back on my personality which I tried to spell out to you since I started playing with these words. You see where the problem lies? I’m a one-man army and a lazy one at that too. I don’t think I hold the correct amount of emotional fortitude to see it out to completion. An emotion, fleeting as the wind, came on me and caused me to write and if it goes with the wind, I’m screwed and would have wasted effort for nothing. There is also the fear of creating something so grand, it encompasses you and overshadows everything you’ve ever done and possibly would do, leaving you to lay in your own shadow. There’s nothing worse than being in your own shadow.

Well, this is the dilemma I currently live in and I have to really make a choice soon. I now take too long between posts and I’m sure I have barely have readers interested in seeing what I put out (I thank you greatly if you even got to this point). If you are one of the people who love reading my stuff, I must have given you ‘literary blue balls’. My previous flirtations with fiction has left me exploring the twisted and sodden corners of my head and coming up with all sort of vile thoughts to pen down. I tend to favour the darkness. I need a tether to anchor me to the reality of my life; that I’m not this person really but a local boy with the mind of an extraterrestrial. I’m stuck on what to do and the next step scares me. But with all these words I’ve written, it’s quite odd to tell you but I’m still blank…

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