And of course, with the recent topics at LitS, coupled with assorted questions from peers and a fruitful discussion with my CT (who I know is reading this now), GP research into the philosphy of Art and the Civics Periods, I have come to the perennial question: (mymy, such exaggeration)

To blog, or not to blog? (haha)
Put in a less dramatic and reductionist manner:
Why do I write? All these idle mumblings on this blog? All these words splattered across the screen?

I think I write to sort out what I have to say. Of course there is the element of practice here, I want to finally give form to those nebulous things that drift around in my head, so that I can write what I feel better. However, sometimes one finds that in writing, one sheds new light on the subject. When I write I tend to self-console, or so I've noticed. Like the bright tendrils that blur the exact darkness. I start out with despair, and then take the subject, twist it around, and turn it into an eulogy of sorts. Whether I use the assurance of possibilities, or the comforting struggle for glory, I've always tried not to be depressing here.

There is also the fact that no one wants to listen, so I write. This is my little act of rebellion, in a way. After all, you can slip things into your writing that you'd never say, nor would anyone want to hear, in real life. My little castle in the clouds is here. The projection of what-ifs and thought-up realities. You see this in the cryptic posts, the romantic dreams, and the occasional lamentations.

Image is also another concern here. I detest that stupid inane saying on my blog now, I shall endeavour to learn photoshop and blot it out with a cleansing mass of white. Disgusting, really. But returning to the subject, I write, in a sense, so that you see me in a different light here. I remember Joash saying I'm quite a disturbed soul after being here. I don't remember wanting to portray myself that way, but I suppose at one time when I was drowning in sorrow the way the emo-women do I must have desired that image. There is always indulgent nobility in suffering.

Katharsis is another issue as well, I suppose. Where else can I write something and have the whole world, familiar and unacquainted eyes alike, look at what I have to say and react in a way influenced by me? In the way katharsis is achieved through shouting and brutal arguments, it is achieved here as well. Katharsis, is after all, somewhat like an announcement. Screaming at the world does wonders for the soul, you see it in all the sentimental chinese serial dramas.

And, written in order of importance, the last consideration when I write is your entertainment. This used to be much higher up actually, around rebellion and air-castle-building in the order of priorities. Perhaps this is reflective of my gradual loss of faith in others. Or perhaps I have just become a boring old geezer by now.

Perhaps the evolution of word-processing has had profound effects on writing. When you can go back and change what you want to write so easily, it is only natural that what you write takes on a more considerate, all-encompassing and empathetic form. To the open-minded that is disastrous, their brains will fall out, they will end up saying nothing but lamenting emptiness, the most all-encompassing concept the human mind is capable of. In a sense, perhaps the typewriter allowed us to capture some elusive form of glorious ideal in its caging permanence and inalterability. I look back at some of the things I said to inspire myself and I find them riddled with holes. But of course, sometimes I abandon the rational, this is just another of those instances.

I don't know how to end this. So I will do so in the most basic primary-school form of ending any composition or essay.

The End.