Why do I write he asked. Well, I had no clear answer to this, somethings agitate me enough to write about them, not that there is any motive to the writing, but this is the way I prefer to act on this agitation. At least it’s a better alternative to breaking the skull of the person involved or having my heart punctured in agitation. It is rage, seething rage. While that accounts for a significant part of my writing, the rest, I will leave it unaccounted for. Not because it does not deserve elucidation, but there are too many reasons and often too insignificant after the fact that I rarely even recall what made me write something. Its fun, for years later when I see a scribbled paper with my thoughts, I read it with relish admiring the author or being in awe of him till the realization gets to me that it was probably my own writing, not that I have a high opinion of anything I write now, it is always later that something discovered loses its meaning as its germ was perhaps always there. What is self discovery anyhow except a redundant oxymoron?
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