I initially didn’t plan to write today because I’ve been writing so much I fear that I’ll use up all the ideas I have to blog. But here I am, writing about nothing in particular (or do I?). I came across a blog post: What To Do When You Want to Write But Don’t Know What to Write and followed the writer’s advice. As usual my day is going by (still working) like an unchanging season. I don’t even know what season is since my country has only one season – perpetual summer with the occasional spring feel.
I was writing (actual writing, like on paper) and realised that my words are of a certain size. Everyone have their own special handwriting of different curves, size, squiggles whether it’s messy or neat but never exceeding a certain height. We’re so accustomed to writing on lined paper, governed by its fence that if we try writing beyond it, it doesn’t turn out nice because it’s unnatural. Our wrist have no muscle memory of that.