Quilling for a Living

I don't read. I'm not affected by some disorder that paralyzes the ability of the brain to take in other people's words and decode them, I just plainly don't. Queer for someone who claims to be a "writer". Someone who's supposed to digest books like they're M 'n M's.

Being a "writer" was never a dream... the total reverse of my reality now assailant to every part that refuses to concatenate me with my "destiny". There was once a time when my subjects and my verbs don't agree. Once when my poetic license was forbidden issuance due to the mere fact that my sentences invoke decadence. An era when I thought the thesaurus was a book about dinosaurs, (the first thesaurus I saw had this font structure on the cover:
T H E S A U R U S, it read "The Saurus" to my imprudently puny brain, I even laughed at it with the taunt, "it should be The Sauruses".) Back when I didn't know how to spell "silhouette", when I didn't know how to pronounce "mirage". When all that functioned was my medulla oblongata and the two other parts of my brain were still deferred.

. Well, now that the world is enslaved by the hype of bitwise damnation, I am enticed by the clicking noise of the keyboard maneuvered faultlessly by my hands.

I can't locate the significant lever that provokes this urge to blot. I guess; the mere knowledge that I'm not under the influence of some best selling author impresses me as well. The unawareness of other people's works cancels the possibility of paradigming. I don't owe the depth of my vocabulary to Rand, or Kundera, or whoever else the literary world praises for their dilutedly contorted views. Situate me in a room filled with book consuming geeks and I'll conspicuously be the dumbest one out. But to give a tiny rat's ass about that wouldn't even cross my mind, for I don't need any of their approval to actually find and prove my worth.

I am to start my own movement, based on the principle now tagged as "Odrism". I've already came up with a mantra that goes, "Don't read if it'll make you bleed, you can still ink and not have to think." I'd also write a book for the irony of it all. I'll name it, "I love books; they serve as good paperweights." And since my friend noticed my impudent misdoing of inventing my own words or strangling existing words into ones that would fit my perversions, I will also come up with my own dictionary. I'll call it, "The Odrisaurus", and then someone with the same minute brain that I had back then would think that it's a newly discovered specie of dinosaur.

I am finding some sort of pleasure in doing something that grants me the privilege of fiddling with a persona that I never thought existed in me. If sense is non-existent in my works, then no blame should be thrown. If my words convey the silliest of meanings, then no criticism should avail. For I ain't really a writer, I'm just claiming to be one. I can take you to places even your dreams won't show you, but from then on it's gonna be your own friggin' business as to how you can get back. No such thing as restrictions, no such belief in norms, only the sole ability to surpass what's real and the shear innuendo of using a brain.