Bats

Some nights I sit on my balcony and watch the bats fluttering over the rooftops. (Or, rather; some nights the bats are the recipient of observation by me, a goal achieved by the utilization of my balcony. I’m not quite sure which anymore.) I used to think they were late-flying birds swooping across the twilight horizon until I took a closer look, for their wing patterns and dark outlines are different; more menacing. As summer rolls in they become more and more of a companion to my free evenings.

I want very badly to write an extra word in the title of this entry, but cannot. It is an ordinary word that people utilize everyday (more common than some of the other language that has infested my writing lately), but pairing it with the subject of the previous paragraph would cause swift, invisible retaliation for reasons I’m not sure I’m allowed to explain. These words evoke my panicked mindset as I skim fretfully over sudden changes brought down while I’ve been away, or as I lose my breath in a dry panic at the e-mails darkening my Inbox with their professional grade-headers and polite bearings of chastisement and derision. But I can’t justify incorporating those two words into this entry. I’ve been told they don’t belong.


There are, of course, certain deadlines that have to be adhered to by me. It becomes more difficult to count paragraphs, sentences, words, vernacular, and bizarre shifts in narrative voice. I want very badly to talk about the bats but am not sure I can effectively do so in the space provided. There are other restrictions too that everyone else (I’m told) cheerfully follows with a carefree smile. Some even relish the challenge of forming newer, more creative ideas out of these restrictions. If I were a better writer, I could relish the challenge too, and express myself regardless of my circumstances. If I were a better writer.

When I think about giving up (which is often) I reflect instead on the glaring weaknesses that are so sternly pointed out to me, and want to overcome them. This is preferable to shutting down, going through the motions, and posting worthless drivel just to get the job done. (I wonder how many people resort to such just to finish their entries with that neat, orderly presentation that is so prized around here.) But this is my blog. I love it, and I can’t allow it to sink into standardized mediocrity.


In short, I feel driven. I am compelled to save this blog, to do the best I can, and to escape my horrendously inhibited predicament. I must forge through the murky gloom into which I’ve been enveloped. (Here I’d like very badly to quote the last lines of a novel by a certain favorite writer of mine. But that wouldn’t be appropriate.) Itterasshai.