Thou Shall Write

11, Jan, 2009. Late at night.

Where is my pen, the tiny stick which engraves the manifestations of a can-be eternal Selfhood on the tablet? Where is it, the canon which reinvents and transforms man from his plightful condition and conditioning, making the later state a history and making new histories out of the former? I cannot live without it. I'm sorry. I cannot live in a depressing shameful limelight in my own eyes, forget about the extrinsic. Even when my mirror doesn't reflect back to me my best composition, I ought to write. 

But wait. Let me sink in the abyss of the world of contemplation, and, by hanging in there, ask myself: What came out of that void which had no inside nor outside? I know! It was you and me, this whole universe, which still is coming in quanta from on high. I know! The river isn't stagnant. It is evolving. I can write. After the realisation, for the sake of advancement and commencement for a never ending journey, then a comes a voice to my mind and orders me, "Thou shall write". 

Thou shall write: To weather the cruelty of imperfect recording machine our brain is; to, using a trite metaphor, 'make the hay while sun shines'; to grasp what that invaluable thing that comes from the void - thought. To make sense and meaning out of that void. To absorb "the thousand natural shocks", to lubricate them. And what is more important than to self-audit.

"Thou shall write," the 'unimaginable source' says, "for life's sake - all in all," - a meaning so wide, boundless and infinite which I fear my words fail to grasp. To write, perhaps, to grasp life itself.
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MuddleHead Signs Off!!

MuddleHead Signs Off!!