A Writer’s Block: Is Writing an Art, or is Art a Writing?

A form of private-conscript, as an occupational zone, is no simple task. As they say: a master of writer has to master his own path. Not only are resources exhausted, the livelihood is consumed up as well. It is a matter of complication: it would take a significant amount of patience, along with little arrogance, to master the daunting sidewalk. Otherwise, one would have to take the long, juggernaut way around the corner. The balance between such a space is mammoth: it is much like writing upon a broken, jagged shortcut, or long journey upon a shallow pave way from the Hell’s Kitchen. Such moment is a descendant of ancients: breaking through the hazardous wintertime Alps mountains with a pair of fat, wolf-sleeved boots, or lest let the heavens self-destruct itself upon the bursts of wasted journey.

Therein I allowed myself to be victimized not only by my writing, but also any reader’s impulse or assumption. It is simply discretion for others, as I expect any form of overlook or ignorance. It is a shell of inner life that runs deep down. There is absolutely nothing more hazardous and unpredictable path than the dangerous and fatal Chinese trial in one of the Impossible Mountains.

The knowledge itself is dangerous, as candidly as many have found themselves to, at least in my generation, to the extent that the records cannot simply be un-erased. Such hard data is simply an in-erasable one, because it is the life data from birth to death. It is difficult and colossal fought-hard data. The data is something to acquire from, rather than suffer the consequences alongside. Many agencies would know who you are, along with all the background information, therefore it is essentially impossible to avoid if one is already recorded on its visit, or even its undesired effects. Such age we live in!

I cannot deny that the information has been glued to my head from the day one. It does not only mean carrying information: configuring and bearing with the data. It defined me as to who I am to this day. It is a solid dead and suicidal state-of-mind. I called it a writer’s never-ending blog. It is a place where writing never dies. It is a place where writing lives on. It is a place where excrement of doom and gloomy comments are secreted on the faces of visitors. Only that precise time would I ever be satisfied, or feed on satisfactory with feeds upon feeds of ravenous, bared writings.

(Writer’s note: this is a censored version, suitable for Internet use)