Yourself?

I sort of like the keyboard I'm typing on now. I feel plenty fast on it, even though it clacks and clack and clacks like an old typewriter. It's the sound of speed. Perhaps a percussive rhythm that I never knew I had, beating beating beating away under my fingertips, hushed by the cheap keyboards I've been using, and smothered by my lack of blogging.

Blogging's fun. Typing's fun. Even though there doesn't seem much to be said. It's English practice. Like how watching chinese dramas is Chinese practice, and watching Japanese dramas is Japanese practice. We practice strange things strangely, trying to make sure they're kept in use, even though because of their lack of use, they've fallen into disuse. But who knows you see, someday in the future, sometime in the future, they may come back into use. What you use defines you as much as what you've once used, and what you've stopped using. Why did you learn that in the first place if you're never going to use it again? Why did you stop using it? Why did you start using it.

My life is littered with the carcasses of things I've thought wonderful and are now dead and lifeless. My life is littered with the seeds that I once thought promising, which grew up to produce beautiful buds, promising beauty within. But I haven't had the time to see my flowers. I haven't had time to water them and nuture them, I haven't had time to spend with them, in watchful anticipation, of their growth.

Then again, I'm also spared the sentimentality of their demise. Who knows? Once they bear fruit and die, perhaps the next time I go back, they'll be seeds once more, promises of a future.

posted by Downhere. @ 3:49 pm