The art of combustion and defusing it by writing

My inward disposition at this present moment is slanting to the state where just a tiny irritation makes me blow up into fragmented pieces. I crack but like the windshield of a car plastered with sticky covered tint, something holds my cracked fragments. It does not look good if you imagine it that way.

My mind is filled with staging emotional bouts which I try to conceal with a cool expression of external stability of a cool exterior. I drove off feeling mental trying to cool off whatever it was that made this irritation burst. I shouted like a madman, while I put the car window up. But obviously that didn’t help. One can shout as long and as hard as they want but everything stays the same. That budding irritation is still there. It might die down as the day dies down and I’ll welcome the darkness. Sleep will probably keep me sane today, that’s for sure.

I’m now writing these thoughts out which helps. Sitting, sipping coffee and with my thoughts on display for me to gaze in it’s depths to derive out something into writing. I guess I would be a good painter if I knew how to paint but I guess I paint with words my inner struggles. I don’t just write dour stuff like this for starters but I guess the reflective side in me tends to write what I’m thinking and feeling.

Sometimes I wonder what drives me to write. The tendency sometimes is to give the unnecessary priority to the disposition of dark moments. I read the novelist Jonathan Frenzen write about the man who was responsible of creating the cartoon characters in Peanuts, which counters this tendency for artists to use dark moments as their ultimate expression to their creations. I’m trying hard now to recall what Frenzen wrote, but alas I have to say that I can’t really recall much. The book is not with me at the moment. It’s a collection of essays really. I have to confess that I find it hard to read novels. It seems that I strive when I read textbook stuff. Not everyone’s cup of tea but I’d call those kind of books my novels. When I read novels I tend to read between the lines too much rather than following the story. I guess that’s why I never get to finish them.

I guess I could say that my bursting emotions have finally subsided. Thank God for that. Writing them down always helps. I’m sorry if you’ve read this post to get something out of it but there’s nothing really. At best this post is about the narrative progression of how one defuses the emotional bomb in them. I defuse mine while I write and reflect. It works for me. To write about myself and amuse you with my struggles.

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