Therapeutic?

I don't know anyone who blogs; I don't blog, and I certainly don't know myself, so I haven't the foggiest where this idea came from. If I did know someone who blogs regularly they'd probably be a wanker and I'd be predisposed to avoiding any activities they partake in. There you go: I don't know anyone who blogs; if I did I wouldn't follow their example.

Q.E.D. Oliver blogging is completely unheard of. Somewhere in the back of my head a tiny piece of memory is stored that urges me to launch my thoughts into cyberspace, to be forever etched into the cradle of the information age. How romantic. How disgusting. How expected. It was inevitable. Paperback reflection just doesn't cut it. I'll just drop a digital copy of my many filled books into a virtual field and wait for strangers to pick them up, read through, and worry about the angsty-as-fuck teenager lurking somewhere in the world. Isn't that lovely?

Therapeutic, I've heard it called. It staves away the darkness that creeps along the walls and intensifies with every deadline, bill, or mortgage. A way to stay completely sane; purge the unhealthy parts of your psyche into an infinitely expanding system that will have no trouble accommodating just another sufferer of the human condition. We all have our methods. Normally I'd pick something interesting, like an instrument. Piano has served me well for the past 7 years, but shit got real quickly somewhere down the track and I've got too much anger to be contained in soulful ballads, and annoying pop. It was worrying when I realised how angry I was at everyone. Even the people I liked. Even the people I really liked. I was playing a really nice piece and I nearly gave myself blisters. Just the other day my fingers started bleeding when I got just a little too into A Change Of Seasons on the guitar. Not to say I've stopped making music: I never will. Shoot me if I do, fo' serial. I just can't expect to be able to deal with people on a song a day. A proper release is required. Once all my emotion is released in the form of angry, punchy chords, I'll use the embers to construct something a little easier to interpret.

That got a little dark for a moment. I apologise.