Short Kerouac Yakking

I really have nothing to say or write as I decided that I would go to the nearest net cafe at our place. Yet, there is just something in me that keeps on saying, whispering, prodding me on that I should write something, anything: just write.

I need to pound on the keyboar and feel again that ryhthmn made by the sound of it.

Drat! I have to write something, I keep on telling myself.

What is there really to write about? I used to pluck subject after subject out of the thin air and could make out at least 500 words about it. But now there is nothing. Nothing really.

What I am doing now is taking the easy way out, trodding a familiar path used and mastered: writing a morning journal (even if it is already noon and lunch time) or probably what should I call pure Kerouac yakking, talkfest in front of the computer; me and the computer (or the probable readers of this entry) alone. One on one.

I'm writing this with The Game featuring 50 Cents rapping Hate it or Love it in the background and the sound of the these little tods playing computer games.

Sonofabitch! There's really nothing to write about. My head is like a tabula rasa with nothing in it but blank whiteness. Nada. Nada. Nada.

There is nothing happening in my mind of what to write about.

What is keeping me from stopping pounding the keyboard is the pure intention to make this blog entry as long as it will take. I have to keep on pounding the keyboard, really pound the keyboard as fast as I could even without saying anything. Just yak.

And yak I stop now.