I take this little green binder along wherever I go because being a writer, I understand that we never know when the greatest ideas may show up.
Right at this moment, I am forcing my brain to dump a load of words and make them look like cool sentences. I am not sure that I am getting there, however the silence and coldness of bathrooms can take me to distant realms and from there I can bring out fun topics, sometimes draw real characters with stinky features.
What had I never understood was the reason why there are people who don't consider writing as their main way to communicate. I have difficulties in expressing myself through spoken words. I don't enjoy much talking, especially after extra-busy weekdays (full-time classes and two tough translations). The words barely come out of my throat.
These days I have preferred to keep myself secluded in a bathroom, just like now, grabbing a pen and this magical green binder. Me, myself, and my intestinal contents, building blocks of ideas, or poems per se.
As I check out my surroundings, I see that in each corner of all rooms in my place, dust is being accumulated which I consider my errors. My faulty life being kept aside, never swept off, never squeegeed, and polluting my consciousness.
So, I have intended to clean up these spots today. Taking away my mistakes... They are now being washed with warm water and mild soap. Then I will bleach the stains so that they can be removed once and for all. My guilty feelings are going to come off like chewing gums stuck on jeans pants being rubbed by an ice cube.
Wipe it off, flush them down, and head to the computer (with washed and towel-dried hands!)
PS - No one has tried to touch my binder, I just wonder why!