Genesis

I must finally give way to the itch. This is the itch I feel when reading those random musings of columnists in my favorite newspaper and the itch intensified by my explorations of the blogosphere. My, oh my, how they write with abandon, unleashing on their hapless readers whatever goddess or demon springing forth from their minds. And their conjured deities go forth and battle with and against other's conjured deities in the arena of politics, science, arts, sports, religion, et cetera, et cetera. And these deities have the ability to rally an army of emotions with them. Oh yes, they can raise feelings of delight, despair, nostalgia, nausea, power, passion.

In me they also raise envy.

Envy for they gush out their ideas and emotions while I keep mine neatly packed inside; that others, like me, can read, digest and even resonate with these writings while mine remain isolated, unused and unappreciated.

Lastly, there is also pride--more aptly, egoism.

I know I can write just like them because I have done it before, in brief moments of glory. Heck! Maybe I can do better: describe with more detail, analyze with more depth, exclaim with more passion, expound with more knowledge.

And bore with more blandness.

Maybe, just maybe.

What is the use of this laptop I bought with hard-earned money? What is the use of the empty notebooks and idle pens? What is the use of all that holistic education?

The itch must be scratched by the pen furiously scraping on paper, massaged with fingers tapping on the keyboard. And it must be assuaged now.