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I used to be an avid blogger back in my college days. Then life happened. Like Jacques Lacan's Real that we had studied in class—the intangible, invisible Real that exists beyond language, before language, and bursts forth in moments where language has no use or structure—life happened. 

Writing for pleasure came to a halt. I didn't notice. Or it didn't matter.

And now life has come to a halt, like a train in the middle of the tracks, no station on either end, no driver in his seat, the fields on both sides stretching for miles, burnt, barren, to meet an unrelenting sky. 

In this dystopia, writing has come back, or the will to write—that itch in the brain that won't let me do anything else.

I don't know if I'd be writing for pleasure. I don't know if pleasure should at all be my pursuit. Frankly, I don't know what I will write.

I'll let my fingers decide. They talk to my thoughts.

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Fingers. Digits. Digital. Maybe, I'll dig up the etymology in my next post.