And so I will.
I want Buddha. By Osamu Tezuka.
I've been enamoured, fascinated, by lines and words. The lyrics of the songs I found. The clever twist, the deep intent, the shifting meanings (depending on the time of day) keeps me thinking and humming along. And I'd listen to it again and again till I get absolutely sick of it. I have to actually listen. And stop my train of thoughts from following the drum and the guitar.
I'm just trying to sing along.
I fear I'm turning into a mindless drone. It's so easy to just switch off and focus on mindless tasks. Instead of thinking so much, in split fractions taking different directions, my mind just goes numb, dull but intensely focused on something, somewhere, somehow. Like a killer, intent on the kill, denying everything else that isn't related. But the moment I shake the frame of mind off I wonder what came over me. It's like returning to the real world (but I never left in the first place). I wonder if the killers feel that way too.
Writing. Is so selfish isn't it? Mine is unfortunately filled with "I"s. Lots and lots of "I"s.
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