Ecrire, pour ne jamais mourir...

Last night I was musing about the writing process.

About what leads some people to write away their innermost thoughts. Shamelessly. Is it out of passion, is it a way of getting away from their fears, their questions? On that field, blogs looks like a blessing, since it allows you not to face your worries all alone. There could be someone lurking around there, who could have the answer of that unanswerable question of yours.

How come it seems much more easier to write at night? Looks like in the mornings, thoughts are not yet awoken. Or maybe they are too logical, too rational to even lead to good writing material….Anyway that's how I have always felt. Not that I am a real nightbird, too bad my body cannot stand it anymore, but any single story I ever written, or at least tried to, were all made at night. That fact didn't struck me until I read a friend's post about it. Well more about his insomia loving but still, his writing seemed to fit that pattern, too. Strange. You feel kinda unique, until you meet your nearly twin over there, across the ocean. Then you cannot help wondering how many of then are still around, undiscovered. "Hey, why don't you read me? So that I know that I do exist for real?"

And why this urge to write in a language that I do not even completely master?

Anyway, yet another question: is the writing simply a way to escape reality? As some might choose to watch a movie, other like better inventing stories on their own?

Nothing new under the sun I know. I bet there are tons of tons of people who asked those very same questions before me. As for myself, all I know is that I couldn't leave without writing. Even if I know I am not that talented, and that I certainly never make it through, to me it's like a drug. Three blogs, all with specific purpose, one paper Diary, countless notebooks and papers, filled with stories, letters, letter drafts, discarded sheets or anything goes. Notebooks I have forgotten, stories I don't even remember the purpose of, and a good gazillion of posts in forums, boxes of emails, printed or not, Personal Messages, postcards, notes on my hands, sometimes, annoted book margins (with pencil only). A flooding of words, as the continuation of my thoughts. As if I was afraid of not leaving a trace behind. Maybe my fear of myself. All those desires that my body cannot contain. The courage of projecting some ideal self on paper.

A real nice drug anyway. Cheap, I can get my daily fix with pen and paper only, addictive (Courting the muse since 1983 AD), low-maintenance (bring on your imagination, Golly), even if I feel like I lack experience in certain domains…, funny (chanllenges rules, and are good for the complexion), auto-analyzing (so that I won't spend dough to some dull Psychoanalist or whatever, telling me I have some serious personality disorder...….yup, you read from a girl who kept his imaginary friends longer than normal average…^ ^)

Intoxication.

So strong that sometimes I feel the need to get away from it, numbing my mind into some time-consuming, thinking-free activities, to better find it back later.

No real answer yet, but certainly the will to go on. Even if nothing won't stand out of all those words