Returning
When I was 12, I decided to write a novel, along with my best friend V. We were fascinated by the paranormal and discussed UFOs to no end. So we decided to write about the planet of Zedara. That was the beginning. Then came the poems. Attempts that grew better with time. I peaked when I was 21, maybe I was luckier than Rimbaud. The dream was always there - the book, my name, my efforts. I vowed not to die before I was published.
Then the realities. Suffering brought out better words. Maybe I have matured over the years, but the strength of words is dying out. My closest friends and family know what I'm capable of. Sitting till 4 in the morning to write was possible once, but not now. I'm quitting, I'm not trying anymore. Maybe someday I will decide to put my heart and soul in it. Writing comes naturally to me, but the motivation is dying out.
I've been feeling guilty about not writing enough. Not every one is born with the skill of writing. There are a few lucky ones, who possess the insight and the ability to bring in the Muse.
Then, something else takes over, someone else writes for you. And once you're done with the trance, done with the orgasm, the words seem not your own, but dictated by someone else. It is a gift, just like a skilled stroke or a lush voice. But just like a gift, it can't be wasted or misused.
I have changed, so have my dreams. It doesn't mean I don't want to write. I will only when it calls to me. Stead' of rusting, I'm letting go, opening my fist, and letting the words fly away. Let them go sleep in a dark tree, melt with the blue air, cool down in dew. When my sun comes out, they'll come back.
I'm letting you go...the last 15 years, my collection of journals, my thoughts in someone's inbox, my shattered manuscript in a publishing house, the contract for my novel that I rejected... go away, let me forget the world I knew...
Return the gift to me someday.
When I was 12, I decided to write a novel, along with my best friend V. We were fascinated by the paranormal and discussed UFOs to no end. So we decided to write about the planet of Zedara. That was the beginning. Then came the poems. Attempts that grew better with time. I peaked when I was 21, maybe I was luckier than Rimbaud. The dream was always there - the book, my name, my efforts. I vowed not to die before I was published.
Then the realities. Suffering brought out better words. Maybe I have matured over the years, but the strength of words is dying out. My closest friends and family know what I'm capable of. Sitting till 4 in the morning to write was possible once, but not now. I'm quitting, I'm not trying anymore. Maybe someday I will decide to put my heart and soul in it. Writing comes naturally to me, but the motivation is dying out.
I've been feeling guilty about not writing enough. Not every one is born with the skill of writing. There are a few lucky ones, who possess the insight and the ability to bring in the Muse.
Then, something else takes over, someone else writes for you. And once you're done with the trance, done with the orgasm, the words seem not your own, but dictated by someone else. It is a gift, just like a skilled stroke or a lush voice. But just like a gift, it can't be wasted or misused.
I have changed, so have my dreams. It doesn't mean I don't want to write. I will only when it calls to me. Stead' of rusting, I'm letting go, opening my fist, and letting the words fly away. Let them go sleep in a dark tree, melt with the blue air, cool down in dew. When my sun comes out, they'll come back.
I'm letting you go...the last 15 years, my collection of journals, my thoughts in someone's inbox, my shattered manuscript in a publishing house, the contract for my novel that I rejected... go away, let me forget the world I knew...
Return the gift to me someday.
Comments
I believe (a word us analysts use frequently), times change people and you've changed much over the Netscribian era.
Bring back the zest with which you write, comment and of course Muse. In the words of the infamous Kurtling, you shall rise again young padawan.. and may that glory reveal your true colors.