whapakk.

I was telling Patty earlier that when I started blogging some six years ago, I was so addicted to it that I wanted to write about every small thing that happened to me. I was writing about the littlest details about what I liked about girls, about the shallowest mistakes by my professors, and the jokes we passed around while waiting for our next class. I had a mountain of things to write about because I was not selective about what I wanted to share with people.

Of course, as the years passed, I got busier with studies (and eventually, work) and I started ignoring the simpler details of life; I think there’s now a higher standard when it comes to things I appreciate and I, for example, no longer note down quotes from books that really catch my attention. I no longer talk about the stupidest ideas about getting a girl to notice me, at least not here on my blog. They just pass me by, those ideas, and it takes me just the amount of time I take conceiving them to forget them.

Inspiration comes in the form of a green drink in a plastic cup today.

And when there’s not a lot of ideas that stick to work with, there’s not much to write about. When a writer feels selective about the ideas and things that are important to him, the less words that come to him, and for me (as a blogger), the less blog entries that I post.

I also think that most of the time, writer’s block comes about with a lack of inspiration; when things mundane go unappreciated, it’s because of a certain disregard with normality, with consistency. When things stay the same way, they are taken for granted and thus, they become unworthy of a writer’s attention. A writer would normally seek new things, new experiences to write about. Bloggers would know this: why would I blog about a routine at work that I feel so tired of experiencing everyday?

And what’s my point? Nothing. I’m trying to unblock this inability to write. Normally, what I would do is go out of my way and run off to some distant place. (No, I wasn’t telling the truth there. I’m always too broke to do that. So fuck it.)

Looking out to an all-too-familiar scene: the quad by Glorietta 4.

Truth is, I’m at Bo’s Coffee here at Glorietta 5 trying to snap out of the funk and just be the writer I want to be. I’m armed with a Green Tea pseudo-frappucino, my laptop, and four brochures from a Nokia booth. What will I be writing about? I guess I’ll start off with something that has to do with ability.

(Update: I just finished writing something. Real short. Here: Pseudo/romance.)