Draught

.
I place myself in front of the pc, poise my fingers over the keyboard, take a deep, deep breath, close my eyes briefly,
and bring my fingers down with a torrent of words for this week's entry....
And I am sadly disappointed.
By myself.

I wish I could write like Amy Tan and Johanna Krintiensen, reflect on the simple miracles of life called relationships, share it with others and make an enormous impact in other people's lives.
Well, maybe it's a bit far-reaching, but I used to write a lot, words seemed to spill out of me with no regards towards what others think and how they might judge me for it. It was a joy to see in words what I had swimming in my head.

Now nothing comes out without consent from the observing public. Nothing goes uncritisized.
When did I become so intent upon satisfying others, all but myself, my want, my relish? When did I become so concerned about being judged, now, later, for what I choose to express about myself, for expressing myself?

It must be this environment I am in. The walls restict me from roaming far from what is reality. The windows gives me a narrowed glimpse into what could be, but never how. The cold floor remind me again and again that there are those who will not approve of this verbal tantrum.

I wish I was in Aryani. The beuatiful idea of the little timber house all to myself. No one to bother me with their unasked-for opinions, nothing but the lone pot o' bougainvilla on the verandah to keep me company should I ever get too lonesome, if ever. The timber floors gives me all the space I need, the sea breeze fleeting through the window, lifting my hair of my shoulders.

What bliss......