The Hours: An Introspective Day

The Hours: An Introspective Day
A blog about the Voice

There was this voice rattling inside my head. I was not sure what i said but then i wrote it:

"A solace in a mind's heart is rattling. For there was a window, and in a window was a view of a city. And every time loneliness would shook Leonard's heart, moments of disfigurement intoxicates his mind. He was lonely. He was a writer.

What does one see's with a mind's eye? When he crept into the balcony where Dostoyevsky's book laid sodden on the floor. There was rain a night ago and it slipped into his mind that moment when he gathered up, the pages he clutched, the pen he smudged on his fixtures, the books he read a thousand times. For there was a window, he saw light coming from the distant air off the top of the Hererra Tower --- fugitive as he would think."

What does a writer think?

If you ask me a question like that i would cite an author and give you his or her perspective on such luminous question. For when a writer thinks he does not write. If a writer writes he does not think. In a life's worth, every writer has two lives: a life he is leading to, and some book he is writing. And when that two lives are submerged into philosophical loneliness, the writer leads two lives together, intertwined in such a fashion where the moments of being happy is coupled with the moments of being sad. What could be a writer writing?

There is no answer to the question yet, for writing is a strict language, it does not cite tolerance on shallower thoughts such as awkwardness or triviality. The moments of being a writer is not with writing but in being who he is and what he would do with his insipid predisposition of his true expressions.

Like what i did today, when i arrived at my chemistry room looking for a chair. A sudden thought rammed through my head, and i was head-on collision with my own conscience. It starts with a question: what if in a writers life, one day, one whole day he would not live his life? To choose another life and be free? What if he never writes? What if there was another life to live? Would i escape such inescapable life i had? What if i would choose death and live for it?

And then, as if the doors were slammed, the winds are broken, and all that i could hear is voice that lives in me. it says: the writer, whoever he is, must live.

i could say that this day, of all the beautiful days i have, i must live as writer and be glad for it. For there such one life, one living stone to breath, and in one day to put it away.

I could have been much happier if there is this proximity to unexpected lives, the ones that are terminal and disposable. i know such a life, and it is a life of the greatest author that i have ever known. her, not his, life became clearer and clearer when she became terminally closed to her own extinction. I could have had such life, but then i did not choose to be such terminal and end life so abruptly. What does she, a writer, a fiction writer, to live when she had writing in her hands?

Virginia Woolf, author of many books that i
do not read but loved because their first
sentences are as captivating as the
authoress herself.

She may have had manic-depressive illness,
but during those times, a large literary figure
was formed. She known herself a feminist.
She has a voice that resonates inside my head.