i'd just finished one month of scriptwriting.it involved weeks of writing,long hours of writhing in agony,of being an absolute vegetable,of not being able to quite communicate at all.just because i'd decided to take an absurd set of rules seriously. now i'd spent a lifetime questioning rules,see?and i think i was just waiting for someone to present me with a mad set of them so i could allow myself to accept them as law.just to see how far i could let myself loose in their constraints.the more absurd they got,the more i relished my discomfort.i was my only enemy.i hurled myself in headlong.i trusted completely.there's no fear when you get like that,it's a lot like being in love.
.
.
.
by the end of the first week i was left with only sensations.basic stimuli. i was aware of feeling.i knew i could see,i knew i felt. there was no more use of the read word. it was the edge.this was the moment,no pillars to hide behind,this is where i got to see how the juice flowed for me.time to check the inclination of the slope,which way would the water flow ?would the water rise up, would i float?i figured,either i’d manage to get things across or i’d forever go down quiet,bubbling out of sight into ambiguity.isn't it what we do in real life as well?try striking a balance between a world of silence to that of words and fro again. i knew if I didn’t let my character grope its way out into the white tubelit room and onto that white table top,it wouldn’t have gotten the closure it needed. You see,it had been trying for quite some time.I'd just not known.