As I sit with keypad in my fingers, my mind goes blank. And yet I remain in my position, eyes staring at blank, my fingers at attention to tap and tap until words come weaving a tale that possibly are deleted at the end.
Those same fingers goes around brushing my hair and head, scratching my arms and skin as if the words are dug deep.
I feel silly and foolish talking about family business with unknown people. Sometimes I’m overexposing secrets and tales that better left unsaid. I’m no different from that rumor mongering fish woman, only my platform is higher tech.
Ah, and I’m not talking about other people, what I say is true and honest. About my mind. Things passed I seek to understand, such as blogging. What is blogging?
It is writing, before they call it diary or journaling. Expressing myself hoping to gather specks of gold hidden in my treasure chest of experience.
It is a task, a job that makes it detestable, something I want to stay away with after the days’ labor. I just want to relax and laugh together with my friends, lounge around with drinks in our hands. But that’s not the real fun. I know because I have been there. There were laughter, but they don’t last. Satisfaction doesn’t come with roaring laughter.
Even if I hate blogging and my mind goes blank, or it comes with terrible headache going to migraine I come up with post from my hair, skin and head into words and phrases. And then I sense an inner joy, my heart roars and jumps.
Tomorrow I’ll be back in this screen, who knows what secret I’ll spill again.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Million-Dollar Question.”