Need a Little Taste of Love

It's an addiction. I can't shake it. Writing is good, I suppose, but apparently no addiction is good for you. I love to write, though. Freewriting is fun. Actually, fun doesn't really describe it. When I'm writing like this, the words sort of flow down from my head through my arms to my hands, which transfer the energy to the keyboard through my fingers. The flow originates somewhere in my head. It's a two-dimensional flow, though: there's a flow in the output, but also a stream of outputs, continuously moving. I guess that's why I can never focus on one subject in a freewrite. Sometimes the graph has no derivative, and on occasion it's not continuous, but it's always a function, never merely a relation. It's such an odd phenomenon; I wonder why I ever stopped doing this. Cocaine never felt as good as this. Maybe I stopped to play video games. That's a good reason to stop writing for a day, but not for much longer. I'm almost glad I can't shake this habit; the only regret I have is the same with any habit: what will I do if for some reason I am unable to continue at any point? Luckily, writing is an easily satisfied dependency. On a desert island, I can always write in the sand. I'll just have to get over my packrat sysadmin logging tendencies.

I think I figured out why I stopped reading. I'm not entirely sure, but I have three hypotheses which are not mutually exclusive. The most obvious is video games. Perhaps I devoted too much time to honing my skills with the virtual MP5 and too little to learning. However, if this is the case, it could be due to the lack of interest in available books. After Mr. Porter's class, I no longer had a source of book recommendations. The only books people talked about were political books. I prefer to read fiction. Fiction is what expands my mind. Philosophical books are alright, but if it's presented directly, it can get boring. I prefer fiction as a vehicle for communication of ideas (viz., Babbitt). I'm also wondering if my music is preventing me from reading. I love my music, and most of it requires my attention. If I've got some really good music, I have to be in a certain mood to do other things (other than talking) during the songs. I could turn off the music, but then I start thinking, and thinking is dangerous. Thinking makes me uneasy. I'd prefer not to think, because it digs up memories, and there's a lot of pain there that I just don't want to deal with. I don't think music is it, but it could be. I mean, I get completely absorbed in books, so thinking isn't a problem (by thinking, I mean independent wanderings of the mind). The problem is ascending into the absorption in the book. It's sort of like a crater: it's a bit of a hike to the edge, but it's an easy descent in, and pretty amazing once you're inside. Getting out is pretty damn hard, too. I'd prefer to get in and stay in, but real life interrupts me. Maybe I can find a week off and get all of Orson Scott Card's books in a stack in front of me. I could get up and eat a meal between each book. That would be awesome. I'd have to plan ahead, though, and stock up, because the dining commons isn't open every minute. It opens about ten minutes from now, though, and I'm starving, so I'm going to apply footwear and depart. I'm listening to Benjamin Gate right now. I haven't heard this for a while. They're South African. It's not like anything else I listen to. There's a lot of tension in some of the songs. I like it.

The End.