Bombardment

I was sitting in front of my laptop with my eyes closed and wondering what should I write about. And what came to my mind the moment I closed my eyes was a blast of the things that have happened to me in the day. I have been home-ridden since a week or more than that and yet there is so much happening in the day that I can't imagine how much does our mind take-in at a time, or how much can it really take-in? I think that is why repetition works: the more you do one thing the more it gets ingrained and has less chances of fading out from the mind, but what about certain incidents that get inked forever?

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Procrastination has become a friend, I'd say. Plotting out story ideas is still an easier task; where procrastination inhibits me is when the time comes to write down those ideas into stories. It brings in references about itself that how it has been helpful to writers to gestate the ideas in the mind. But on the other hand your gut reminds you of the references that say that writers write in one sitting and finish off drafts in one go. These internal conflicts are eternal. The word conflict is a synonym of eternal, I have started to believe.

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The mind though full seems empty to throw out thoughts. I guess this brief venting out is enough for the day. Maybe not always one has to vomit monologues.