Ramblings of the Written Kind: #2

Another piece dug out of the "drawer"...:

And it just hits you – this need to write and write and write because nothing comes out right when you say it and nothing seems so clear and honest as when you take that jump from heart and mind to page and ink.

I let the music on my stereo fill the room and even overpower some of my thoughts so that only the baer essentials from my brain drip through.

I feel bloated with emotion and energy – like I’m bursting at the seams with all these things that I want to do and see and experience, and yet life seems to get in the way. This city, this place, this experience of living has become some drollery of tedious cyclical momentum – energy building and building with no way to release itself into a wider arena than a life which presents itself as a room with no doors, no windows - only white-washed walls with no discernable physicality.

Sometimes I wish to just explode on the page with no idea as to what it is that I’m writing at all. I want to feel and express everything within, so much tied into such a small soul – in a way music does but with my own capabilities – of which music is not one. I used to think it was – but I am humbled by the greatness I come upon in others everyday. I do not have the voice of an angel, I do not have the fingers of a virtuoso, I do not have the perseverance of a struggling artist – I only have that deep inner want that drives talentless schmucks such as I into an oblivion of desperation with no way to actualize true fruition.

It would be one thing to write an actual story – something that could be read and understood and connected with an actual reader – but I have no cause to write such a tale – because there’s no real story to tell – no meaning to impart that I don’t believe hasn’t been told a million times.

And then, so it dies, this false sugar energy of mine disguised as actual ambition. Reality builds its brick wall in an instant and doubt and fear and listlessness pervade.

How fleeting inspiration is, and how I long for it to return.

Ramblings of the Written Kind: #1

One of my biggest failings when I write is that I constantly and consistently start and stop... and then do not continue when I pick up again. Instead, I start all anew. It definitely makes for a very unfruitful use of my writing for sure. However - I also tend to like the bits on their own for what they are - the memories they bring and the feelings they evoke.

I used to post on thisisby.us, and do still love that community to bits, it's just a bit of a task to write there, as it requires trying my hardest to keep the "me" out of "me"... so instead, I figured I'd post a few things here...

Here is a bit, I dug out of the heap...

Somewhere along the way, our relationship had turned into an old pair of jeans, the ones you basically love and wear to death. The hole of our fight had been patched lovingly, caringly, and slowly - with strong thread that not only bound the woven fabric of two existence planes of our partnership together, but interconnected them in a way that to the average eye, made them seem like one. But like those old pair of jeans, as time went by, the patch proved stronger than the original whole.

Bit by bit, just as every pair of jeans eventually do, the greater original base of who we were slowly wore away, and eventually, the only part that remained was the patch alone. We had turned ourselves into a woven scab of tiptoes and glances that were wholly evident in all our conversations and truths. Only a shadow of our original connection lay hidden under the patchwork we created – destined to forever be obscured for the sake of holding it all together. Oh to glance at the remnants of our original selves one last time – but no. Such an action would only kill all that is left, and leave a patch unto itself – something meaningless and no longer useful because its purpose had completely fallen away.