Perestroika

Perestroika.

Reconstruction.

You must wonder why I don't write these days. Because I have been thinking. A lot. I cannot write when there is too much influx into my head. The problem of plenty. The plethora of ideas creates a chaos, which is disturbing as well as consoling at the same time, the latter because it reduces my willpower to categorize thought. But much of this is beyond you, I suppose.

I do not write because I have been reading. You already know how I use fiction to drug my senses. Use it to hasten forgetting the past, and creating a new present, reconstructing.

I don't write because I have been thinking about Dominique. Dominique Francon. Wondering if Rand's characters could be for real. I am forced to think that can there be after all, no reason for my existence besides me. Because all this time,I have engaged myself in a quest to find a reason for my existence which is other than me. But now I am compelled to wonder if the antithesis of that is possible. Can one survive and live, solely, with her own-self as the source of all energy. If she could, then I shall stand healed. Healed. My bibliotherapy would have worked. I would find my muse in me. Do you understand?

Aren't I that way anyway? If it is true that anything creative can be created by only one mind, without any interference from any external collective force, aren't I that way anyway? Haven't I been writing all that I ever wanted to write, without asking you what you wanted? I have prevailed. Only I have prevailed. There has been none but I. At least here. At least here.

So ain't I chasing the impossible that I already have become? At least here. Do you understand? But frankly, you don't need to.