Memoirs of an Amnesiac

For someone whose mother has gleaned hormonal and genetic proclivity from radio soap operas and early-afternoon-holy-hour-siesta programs, there is no cause for alarm for uncalled for spur of the moment musings, especially over Facebook and Twitter (although I don't post so much in the latter).

People (especially my contacts) put so much attention into what I post, may it be song lyrics or dialogues in a novel. They always attach my posts to what is "current" about me: my family, work and love (if there truly is one) statuses.

It used to be that I etch over cyber cosmos what my somewhat (yeah, not close enough huh?) twisted mind's (that needs occasional tweaking) quirky musings has segued from my daily observations and meanderings. There is so much histrionics reflected on those elusive defining moments that I always find myself caught in fancy (sometimes, even to an exaggerated degree, such as gawking and being caught dumbfounded). I just need to document like some obsessive-compulsive historian extremely apprehensive about the changes that time will cause.

Did I just mention that "I used to etch?" because obviously I've resigned from that propelling habit. Yes, some may merit it to maturity (or the lack thereof) that I have fallen laid back on expressing my thoughts and giving people the wrong impression that I'm neurotic and I needed a straight-jacket right towards my psyche ward asylum. Or maybe (just maybe), I have come to terms with myself, having realized that everybody goes through the same craps in life as I do.

Writing does it (yeah!) and I could not even begin to catalog what great therapeutic benefits writing has afforded me. In writing, I seize to become (whatever temperament or state of insanity I am in). I lose the mask I carefully craft for people to make impressions about me. I become the person whom I had always wanted: frank, unreserved with no holds-barred. I carve through writing my deepest and unobtrusive angst about the world I live in and the people residing in it. The carvings can be so bloody and deep that I muse over the enormity of their scars (things I know will leave my own personal mark, along with my unrelentless desire to express). I am constantly enamored by whatever lofty or downright silly or mind-blowingly hilarious incidents this mundane world presents (on a rusty platter).

In defiance to time and gravity, I seize to become but just a fragment of the spur of the moment.