On writing nonsense with Oscar

On writing nonsense with Oscar
"Mount for Last Poppies" by Theodore Roussel; via Public Work.

I don't feel the pass of time... Until I return here and try to make something out of my thoughts. That it takes this long is not something I despise or hate, it's just something that happens.

That I'm still here, and still me, being able to come back to my corner of the internet is a thing I underestimate. I don't really feel the need to write when morning comes, but I would be lying if I say that I don't think about it. It's all caused by this juxtaposition of my character: I wish I could write, even when writing. I obviously refer to the fact that I don't consider myself good at writing. I write, because it happens. I suddenly get this urge to put myself in a spot... For myself to see. Some kind of self-improving masochism I can't seem to get rid of. Ever thought about why I decided to write in English when I am Spanish native? Hardcore and hyper self-criticism will do that to you–that of course, may have a deeper root cause I'm not sure I'd be willing to talk with a psychologist. Well, I'm still here, and still me, I believe. Though, my writing may say otherwise.

If you are following along all the things that happen in Acento en la O, you, for sure, have noticed that I don't follow a topic. Yes, I write about the things around me, but, as I've grown older, everything is starting to feel a little bit more eclectic. In contrast to my younger self, I started noticing a lack of opinion on most things. Yes, I still like what I like and I'm very opinionated on it–as we all are–, but I started noticing that don't know anything about the majority of my surroundings and I have started to feel more comfortable experiencing it. Of course, the fame I made for myself of having strong opinions still precedes me and throws my acquaintances off if I decide to ask instead of say.

There's a line in a Franz Ferdinand song that says "Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?" I think about it every now and then, mostly when I'm alone and the silly thoughts start creeping in. Often, it will end in my buying pizza but other times it will push me to open this small tablet computer, dust off the keyboard slash case and sit in the darker–and colder, this hot dry weather I cannot love–corner of the overpriced coffee shop I've forced myself to like for lack of close-by options to write a little bit instead of numbing myself with my phone. And I'm happy. I can write. Even if I don't like it. Even if I love it. And despite what I wished I could have been.

My chai cappuccino is waiting... And look at the time! I've to publish this piece because she's waiting. And I love her. And I did write. And I know it will all make sense later.

Or not.