I have bliss
book. It’s a small notebook where I bring and write my epiphanic thoughts that
out of nowhere reveals itself to me. At work, while exercising, inside the
bathroom – anywhere and I mean, ANYwhere.
I’m glad
I brought it in my belt bag when I had my run this morning. While resting at
this familiar bench, in a familiar park and this familiar feeling, I started
jotting down. I had tiny useless ideas running through my head while I was running
and I tried to remember every detail so I can write those down.
As I sat
on the wooden plank, I had this ecstatic feeling that somewhat liberated me
from my dark plight. It’s different when I’m writing down my thoughts onto
blank pages and when I’m encoding it on my blog. There’s no fear that it will
be psycho-analyzed and judged by people on the internet.
Writing on my small notebook is very redemptive, and it feels amazing. I never thought i'd be back to writing again. I never even imagine that i will be writing now - all I planned was to run today, nevertheless, it’s all the prozac i need. I am stupid and oblivious about how endorphins work and psychological stuffs, but all I know is that this kind of feeling leaves me dumbed yet jaded.
It's simply, ineffable.
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