It’s sometimes hard to remember what you did in a day, although when you aren’t trying to remember it what you did gushes up all about in your head, in such a strong torrent of words and flows and rhythms that you begin to fear for your head. A person’s brain can only hold so many words. But now I try to type, and everything seems different. COuld it be because I try to be more careful with my words? Or because of the typos? Perhaps because I don’t seem to be able to type fast enough. The words race through my brain faster than I type, and it doens’t seem right when I slow down to correct a word here, retype a phrase there. Writing is different. Writing allows you to sift through the words in your mind till you find what you are looking for, yet at the same time, it is too slow.Such confusion over a single thing.

SO what do I say now? Today was an eventful day. I don’t mean that in the ordinary, humdrum manner in which most of the better part of the human population carries out its lives. Today I did more meaningful things than I have done in a day for many days. I woke up in the morning, all tired and bleary-eyed; I left the house and rode in my mother’s car still bleary-eyed and not a little too heatstroked (I realise that isn’t even a word, but nevermind that now); when I reached my grandma’s house I felt faint from the heat and carsickness. We watched two movies. I Am Legend, which was really good and National Treasure, which was really typical of a Big Roaring American Feel-Good Film. A Typical Blockbuster. One which was sure to garner lots of critics’ anti-rave reviews and a big bunch of box office cash. Stuff like that make me believe more and more in the Mob’s stupidity in eating everything from the hands of commerce. But I still watched it, even though I wouldn’t have wasted money on it if it had been just me, because my brother wanted to watch it.

I though Will Smith’s performance in I Am Legend was amazing. Not just amazing, but very very good. My favourite part *HUGE SPOILER ALERT* was when he dashed into the darkness after Sam (ever notice how people usually write “his dog Sam” instead of just “Sam”? Is it because we want to differentiate between animals/pets and humans, or just for reference’s sake, and so as not to confuse pets and people?) That part moved me more than I can say. The whole time he was in there I could smell the stench of fear with him, and dread pooled in my stomach the same way it must have with him, except for him it was all real. Have you every wondered, how much torture actors and actresses put themselves through every time they play out a character in distress? I mean the really good ones, who act it out so perfectly, so thoroughly, that you feel their emotions coursing through you the same time it goes through them, and not just because of the background atmospheric music trying to ham it up. Why would anyone put themselves through such pain, again and again, even if it’s for money? Acting is a passion for real, true actors, but how can such agony be worth it?

I wanted to write about how words flow through your head in all the wrong moments, especially when you can’t get it down on paper or in the computer. They just keep streaming in and out of your head, not stopping, and the more you try to stop up the river the faster it flows. Of course, many days you do succeed in damming the flood of words,but there’s always a lingering sense of having lost something. Your intellect? You feel it slipping away from you, bit by bit because you are plugging up the flow of your thoughts?

Why can’t we be like words? Words pass through intangibles, their only obstacle is the air and solids like buildings. Words leave lovers’ lips to reach lovers’ ears; words leave a father’s mouth to pass through a mother’s tummy, into an unborn child’s memory. If we could be words, what lengths we could go to to mean what we say! Words don’t have hidden meanings, unless the listener knows how to listen for them. Words are to the point, brisk, but also true and full of emotion. Words can be twisted to lie, but the words themselves never do. Am I being clear enough here? I hope it’s understandable. It’s just that words seem to flow out my head so easily at times, and when I try to capture the essence of them later, it all seems distorted, not quite the same. So I hope my ideas have been brought across discernibly.

In just a few years, a decade perhaps, the generation who lived through the first World War would no longer exist. The only material thing that would remain of them would be their bones six feet under, or their ashes if they were cremated. Isn’t it strange? To know a pile of ashes lying in an urn in a crematoriam belongs to a person? More correctly, is a person. What a strange world we live in. And yet still such an intriguing world, and so beautiful.

If only we all knew how to look at it through the right eyes.

But what are the right eyes?