Defragmenting

Well, daaaaaaang son! If I didn't know any better, I would say I didn't write very often.

But let's not get into that just now.

Admittedly, I've been considering starting another blog. There are a lot of things I want to say that, well, I feel just can't be said in a pseudo-public blog.

That's why I write fiction; I can just speak my mind into the welcoming void of fictional anonymity. Plus, it typically draws out words I didn't know I wanted to write.

I've heard tell that dreams are our own brains' way of defragmenting our consciousnesses. In other words, we get all jarbled up inside our noggins, and dreams forcibly untangle some of the knots.

I say stream-of-consciousness journals do the same sort of job. I insist even further that fiction literature does the best job. There are no limits; there are only tangled webs waiting for some impossible scenario to make sense out of them.

If I glance across my memory, I see glimpses: bits and pieces that suggest to me that those who only ingest nonfiction have the most fragmented minds.

I don't have enough to make a proper hypothesis, but it does inspire a lot of question marks.

Thus, I want to create another, wilder, less inhibited blog.

Or perhaps that’s just my excuse not to write my books.

As much as I hate to admit it, the lack of wifi has been foiling my writing. You see, my computer got a bit wonky, and it likes to shut off its internet access every so frequently. Poof.

I’m typing on my phone now with my super-nifty, newfangled, Bluetooth keyboard.

Why do they call it Bluetooth?

I need to get myself a plain, ol’ Ethernet cable set up. That’s gonna require fidgeting with the router again. Bleh.

Bleh-heckin-bleh.

There was a time — not too long ago by some standards — when I wrote most things on paper. I used to have a massive notebook with five sections (and I would turn it upside down and backwards to make another five going the opposite direction).

I wrote so many random things. The main treasures I preserved are my dreams: my literal, trippy dreams. I’m still editing them to make them legible, and I might have to draw some pictures to give them more sense.

Dang, I’m not so good at drawing yet. I tried my hand at it recently, and some weird things came out: the sort of things you’d see in a middle-schoolers history notebook. I was proud of them though. I haven’t much put my hand to drawing, so, obviously, I have to start at rudimentary doodles.

I used to draw a lot though. I don’t know how that one got so dusty and forgotten. Commas: I’m still trying to understand commas. You don’t have to if you don’t want to; I’m just saying that they fascinate me.

In other news, there’s so much other news.

It’s late, though, and I haven’t been sleeping well.

I never sleep well, lol, but I like to try to pass it off as something noteworthy.

Eh, but that’s a bit of an exaggeration. I sleep well sometimes. I’m not sure how to harness it though. It’s probably about that time anyway: time to try a fine, ol’ nap.

I miss reading and writing. I miss late-night poems: the ones that started off ridiculous but then drifted deep and reflective. “Chasing Orion’s Belt” is like that — a lot like that really.

I got too many things to write, so I cower away from them, thinking, “Once I do this or that, then I’ll have the time or energy.”

Eh, but it ebbs and flows.

I’m ebbing right now.

Goodnight, little noodles.