I find myself tearing up the papers again. Papers so much like the pages of my mind, filled with words that can't make sense. I've long since figured out that what makes perfect sense to me, makes no sense at all to others.
All those stories filling up the cup of my mind, threatening to spill over the brim, flooding the world with the mess of nonsense no one can decipher. I stare at the wall, letting my thoughts take me, lift me with their silken wings, carry me past the stars and just above the land of imagination. I never touch the ground when I go there, I only graze the floor, stuck somewhere between Writer's Block and complete inspiration.
I blink, shaking my head, flicking my eyes around the room to clear them. I must have zoned out again, fell back into my mind and away from the world. I don't understand why I'm told not to do that, not to think as profoundly as possible, not to contemplate philosophy and seek sudden inspiration. Why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't others? Why should all who think as sentient beings here on this planet have minds that contain the exact same focus and self-discipline as their colleagues?
They say day-dreamers tend to be less happy than non-dreamers. That makes sense, since we do tend to think a lot harder about things only minorities care about. We think about things in the past that aren't recorded, things in the future that might never happen. We think about death, we don't wish to understand life because we already know that life is something not meant to ever be understood. But I digress, my point here is simple; we are less happy, it's true but we are content in our unhappiness.
As I'm sure you know, I don't care if people think I'm mad. I am. I'm insane, I think very differently. If prescribed pills, I'd throw them out, if told to focus, I'll lose myself in the folds of my mind, if told by every trusted government official we have here in Canada that the government has no secrets and knows nothing more than what we know, I'd blow my eyes out laughing.
To me, sanity is insane. Why? Because it's boring.
Aye, but I'm ranting again and from what I've encountered, people don't like that even if I do. People don't like it when I droll on and on even if I can make it different, interesting, strange or even beautiful, they just don't like my rants.
And yet, all I'm doing is painting, finger-painting with my keyboard, sketching with a mouse. Writing and writing and writing some more, two stories published, a thousand and one thrown away simply because, they were too weird.
I blink, shaking my head. I was writing, wasn't I? Oy, and now I'm ranting again. Going on and on about things no one in their right mind cares about.
Well, that's not true. The right sides of their minds might be enjoying this while the left sides laugh in bitter distaste. Sometimes I'm so glad my right side is slowly consuming my left. Soon I will have nothing but thoughts of pointless yet meaningful queries floating in my mind rather than relentless numbers and ravaging logic.
I turn from my computer, back to my papers, back to my pencil, back to classic writing.
How I'm going to miss it. Paper, I mean. But dead trees or e-waist is a difficult choice.
I start to write again, letting the vines of sentences string together through my fingers, onto the pencil and latch onto the paper. I'm not making sense, I'm ranting on and on, I'm writing up concepts no one will ever understand and everyone will criticize.
But I'm never going to change and I can't help but smile at the stories I have written, meant for my eyes alone. I sigh and tuck my pencil behind my ear, rotating the cramp out of my wrist.
I find myself tearing up the papers again.