Breaking Ink

Ron stared at his laptop screen. It took him a while to actually start typing. It had always happened to him - weeks and weeks of talking to himself knowing exactly how he'll write everything down, but then actually sitting down and the words just don't come out.

He even had no clear idea why he was writing. The decision had dawned on him a couple of weeks earlier, while driving his car on his way to work. He just felt like writing things, exposing them to the world. Nobody would actually read what he would write, he knew. It was the Internet, where everyone had something to say and nobody had the time or patience to read.

But then again, perhaps that was the reason altogether. Like shouting while your head is covered with a pillow, like talking to someone who had an endless capacity to listen without making a sound.

This can either die out rather quickly, or become an obsessive hobby of his. He had no idea as to the frequency of his posts or the connection between them. They will just arrive when they arrive.

The past five years had been ones of deep changes in his life. He had become a father with two girls, bought an apartment, changed jobs. Ron did not like changes. He figured that one of the ways of coping with the whirlwind of life for him was to withdraw to deep thoughts, analyzing his life and his feelings and considering what's ahead. These thoughts were rarely optimistic in nature, but often laced with self loathing mixed with self pity.

So he would write, he gathered. Perhaps when some of these thoughts are before him in writing, they would make more sense to him or sink even more deeply. Beyond that, he had no clue.