what's blogging

I wonder what's with blogging. There's some sort of ego involved, you hope on some level that someone, make it the whole web community will read your work. That's the ego part.
But, at the same time simply because of the sheer magnitude of the web, one question really how many will. With the thousands and possible millions of blog users, there's a certain anoymity in an online blog. You can write with the perception that indeed there are thousands and millions of people reading it, but really you are writing for yourself, and perhaps the friend that went to your site, simply because, he or she is your friend. And not because this is the next literary gem.
This sort of anoymity is at levels sad and comforting, almost like the feeling of standing all alone in a crowd. You cherish the individual that is you, but hope for the companionship that's sorta around you

my writings

My writings- Started couple of months back, lacked impetus to continue. Maybe now I will.


This is a common happening, we meet for dinner (or maybe one of those meals) and outlandish conversations inadvertently occur. I really do not know whether is the group outlandish, or that particular individuals are outlandish, or heaven forbid –just me. That’s pretty much the consensus that the rest have, that the catalyst for all these outlandish conversation is me. Well, I don’t quite know about that, I cannot really credit all of this to me, my ego isn’t really quite that big, actually it is. Yeah, the reason why outlandish conversations occur in the group is me. There, I said it.
But, if that was the case, on some level I am definitely wasting tones of the group time, in conversations that do not mean very much, and simply go on and on and on, you get my drift, like circles. As if, you have not as far realized, the last two paragraphs, and if my word check is correct, the last 163 words is really about nothing. It’s been pretty much gibberish.
But, that’s just it. It can’t be just gibberish, it has to be more than that. It has to be. (At least I try to tell myself very hard that it is) Random thoughts and ideas, ridiculous uttering, strange labels, and the same old topics, topics that seemingly can’t be solved dominate these conversations. My mom, like many others ask, ‘How on earth do you have so much to talk about?’ The answer is simple, I don’t know. Maybe, it’s the pleasure of the company, maybe we really do have a lot of issues to talk about, maybe we don’t have that many issues to deal with, and thus we continue on talking about the little issues that we have and beat it to death. If, we really do have huge life- threatening issues, do you still think we have time to have such inane conversations? I doubt it. But, this story isn’t about people with huge issues. We don’t face hunger; famine, war, suicides, serious depressions, joblessness, handicaps, and none of us really do have huge chips on our shoulder. Little ones, we have (by the way, are huge chips, still chips). However, if we were to use the old adage, isn’t a problem huge, merely because it’s mine.
That’s why I title this book, novella, article, whatever, I haven’t quite decided. (More to the point, I don’t know where it is leading me yet) Coherent Gibberish. I knew about the title, instinctively, somewhere in the first paragraph. This is not the first time, I have used this phrase and I doubt it’s the last time I use this phrase. I have not heard from any one else but me, this phrase. That’s my point, I seem to be able to invent phrases and ideas, or simply look at things at a point so very different from another. Maybe, that’s where I have justification to be ego about, my hubris: the fact that I have intellect and a mind. Yet, I actually doubt it, I think (it’s more like it know) that many people have such outlandish ideas too, it’s just that my ego demands that I tell all and sundry about it, where else, another will simply keep to him/herself, and go on with life. I will however, air it; force it out in the open for discussion. Somehow, I feel that these ideas are indeed important and demand its place in the sun.
That’s why; while such random thoughts are gibberish and in the grand scheme of life and things do not really matter very much. I think that they form the very fabric and focus that is real life. The so-called intangibles, the difficult to explain, the reason why many spent money on expensive seminars, read self-help books or go into some mountain somewhere nowhere to discover. The need to discover overwhelms some more than the others. My mother’s generation and the seemingly practical amongst us will think that I am a very privileged person, to be even pondering about this, and not out on my butt fighting for my very existence. The old Teochew adage, if I can translate goes: ‘ Eat already, Nothing to do’ is my mom’s description of this state. Some truth in it no doubt, as all mothers’ mantras go, they normally are all true on some levels.
I maintain though, there is some inherent logic, purpose, thought that go through all this, I just have to plough through this. Which probably is why, it takes such a long time, and why we have endless conversations about it. It’s most definitely there somewhere. Almost like life, don’t you see, you muddle through it, and hope for that ‘aha’ moment. Some get it early on in life, good for those, although I doubt there are many, and even they did, I really doubt that they have the complete, end all and be all of it. If they say they do, they are lying or not looking close or deep enough. Some get it late I life, more likely, but not very useful by then, at your deathbed going I see, I see. Still, I doubt you get then. Most use religion, as a source, I am one of them, religion or faith seems interchangeable in the modern rhetoric, I doubt it’s the same though. Religion, I guess yeah, to some degree. It’s faith though that gets you closer to the answer. Faith however is so intangible, not really something you can bottle and sell, and explain. It just is. That’s just the problem, you can’t quite pinpoint the origins of it, and in my own way, I am trying to navigate through this mystery. Of course, drugs and other intoxicants are used, but the general drift and Ministry of Health advertisements, and the examples of many rock poster children is that it does not work. I will yield to that belief, and not propound further on this way to search for life’s meaning. Besides, I really can’t afford this version, it cost way too much.

This is meant to be a novel, so a story has to be told. I am not quite ready to start the story yet, still framing it and trying to get the grasp of the story. It’s fairly obvious where the story is going; it’s going to be a mesh-mash of experience and anecdotes hopefully framed in a credible worth reading template.
Once upon a time, there were… U not quite my style! Sort of gotten past fairy tales, no longer a three year old anyone. Let me try again.
It’s the best of times. It was the worst of times… Not Dickens either. Really doubt that even if I could complete this piece of work, it will reach the standards of Dickens and his luminaries. Maybe, I will aim for something lower; let’s see JK Rowling and Harry Porter standards.