Writer's block

You see, I'm a Scorpio. Just like Picasso or da Vinci, I never finish most of the work I start, just like this blog.

I once dreamt that I would be rich and famous, at least in the blogosphere. So the First Movement has begun. It was supposed to be a dramatic entrada, the first wave of a raging surge of emotions and feeling expressed and captured in free-flowing lines of prose.

But then things changed. Just like the tides, my literary excursions ebbed into the deepest confines of my mind. I was once again trapped, lost in words wanting to come out but couldn't be expressed. I always have a concept blossoming somewhere in my mind, but when I face the intimidation brought by the blinking cursor in front of me, my mind ends up at a loss for words. A loss for words! How excruciatingly forlorn!

My life's work distanced me from the thing I like most, writing. Translating my unknown thoughts into known patterns, combinations of glyphs that invoke a common definition to people who recognize it. And being the writer I am, I go as far as extending the mere common word into something more provocative, more daring, more passionate. I like using big words, the way they slush, swirl, and hang around, waiting to be used, waiting to be proof of impeccable eloquence in the language.

I keep a journal. Used to, but then people mocked me. They mocked my notebook, my ability to translate hidden thoughts into spoken words, to express the world as I perceive it, as I feel it. They don't want me to express myself, about how I see the world through my dismal, despicable eyes. I thought that was how the world works; they're satisfied living in their memory, of putting their thoughts in their mind, never getting out, never getting expressed.

I may have some things that I have to keep to myself, but my writing must not falter. I must continue to write, on and on, until all words have faded out of existence, until my mind stops, until my soul wavers. Not unless I am dead shall I stop using big words. The world is my viewpoint, and my mind is the blueprint. A blueprint to build, not a physical entity, but a personalized account of my own existence, a narrative of my being. With my mind as a blueprint and the power of words as my medium, I shall create a world, a world made entirely out of my own view, the real world as I see it through my eyes.

I am a writer, a builder of worlds, the master of linguistic expression. Forsooth, I am a writer. I have the power to distort or enhance a person's world view. I can bring forth harmonic truth or chaotic lies. I am a writer. And the world is my viewpoint.