Just. Write.

Just. Write.

 

Just freaking write,” I tell myself, as if it’s as easy as ripping paper. Just write, and something will come to you. Something inspirational. Something just erratic enough to be gold. Put your fingers to the keys—we’re done with paper for the moment—and just. freaking. write.

At times like these, I remember days when words flowed endlessly, endlessly like wildfires in summer. Writing was more than an escape, more than an afterthought. It was life. I’d have a thought and, without hesitation, open my computer, and words would pour and pour out, spill and spill. Badly strung together words. But words, nonetheless. Words, and stories.

I miss those days.

I often wonder how I strayed from that light. Was there a single, sudden cause, or was it a slow descent into nothingness? Was I like a frog, being boiled in increments? I’d like to think there was one cause, because dealing with the aftermath would be easier, a simple mathematical equation.

Is this what adulthood is like? Becoming too busy for the things I love, acknowledging that they are slipping away, bathing in the regret, yet failing to do anything lasting about it? If so, can I reverse time? Can I return to my endless days? Well, I know that I can’t, but at least, I’d like to think about it. It makes it sadder, though, I know it does, thinking like that, but I can’t help it.

Just. Write. As if it’s so easy.

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MORTALITY

HAVING SPUN A WEB FROM WHICH THERE IS NO LIKELY ESCAPE

THE HUMAN SPIDER RESIGNS ITSELF TO ITS UNFORTUNATE END

EVEN THE FLIES PITY IT

THEY CONTINUE TO FEED IT

THE HUMAN SPIDER DIES FAT, AND FULL, AND EMPTY-HEADED


Written on April 15th, 2018 at 9:05 AM

Happy Halloween!

Why I Write

Why do I write?

 

Well, what a silly question indeed.

What a silly question to ask myself.

Why do I write?

I suppose I should answer it, though.

 

I write because I have to.

Because there are things I cannot express with my voice alone.

There are things hidden within me that only flow when I write.

I write because I want to record the stories that appear in my mind.

The stories of people whose lives only I have created,

Whose worlds I have developed.

I want to share those stories with myself.

Other people, too. But mostly myself.

I want to read the stories I have created

Laugh at the jokes I have crafted

And perhaps, have others laugh too.

 

This is why I write.


Written on August 15th, 2018 at 7:29 AM

What I’ve Lost

I miss the times when I could write freely

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what has changed

Is it the fact that I haven’t been reading as much?

Is it the anxiety of growing older eating at my creativity?

I find that last one hard to believe

Look at all the authors who succeed, who produce even into their elderly years

Something is eating at me, but I can’t discover what it is

Something is pulling at the threads of productivity I’d wound up for years in my earlier youth

Perhaps I was creative because I had to be

In school, in Literature lessons, we were given assignments

To read, to write, to repeat the process frequently

I suppose that then, my mind was constantly working

Also, then, I wasn’t so drawn to electronic things

In my free time, I drew, I wrote, I only occasionally watched TV

Nowadays, things like YouTube, Twitter, Tumblr, have taken over my life

Or, perhaps I have lost my creative writing voice

Stifled, beat into basics by the world

Perhaps I’ve written too many academic papers

I think that I used to write much more before college

I think that somewhere along the way, I lost my passion

I get the ideas, but I can’t seem to put them into fruition

Or, rather, I’m not satisfied with the meagerness I produce

I think, and I’ve written this down before, that it’s like

My writing has taken the first step to evolution but my brain can’t keep up with it

I want to change, but I’m bound by the voice of the past


Written on August 15th, 2018 at 7:09 AM

Time

I’ve recently begun to wonder how

It is possible for time to move so quickly and so slowly

All at once

In a dizzying dance

A back and forth game of life, death, renewal

I’ve begun to teeter even more viciously

Between happiness, sadness

Bittersweet melancholy, unrestrained joy

I wonder, is it okay for me to feel this content?

Is it all right if I boast a little?

I’ve recently begun to wonder how

It is possible that I am finally living


Written on September 2nd, 2018 at 10:46 AM

I

In any case,

 

If I stop long enough to feel again,

I notice my hands are trembling

Ever so slightly

When did it start?

What is the cause?

I have the vaguest idea

But I seek clarity

 

In any case,

 

I must move on

Towards something greater

Can I make it through this week alive?


Written on January 30th, 2018 at 2:03 PM

 

Of the Afterlife

Of the afterlife

Of what things we cannot see or dare to dream

Yet claim to draw closer to every day

 

I follow hard after the impossible

Of dreams once removed and once relived

I bind my mind with letters of importance

Of the worlds beyond, those which we only dreamed of, or dared not dream of.

Hard to imagine the afterlife

Hard to examine the sun bare-eyed and naked

Of the ability to abandon cowardice, I say: cheers.

I have not examined the sun quite enough, and the after haunts

Me, I am of cloud time, and ancients.

Of a world that dares to sleep and keep pace a step slow.

Of ancient dust and reluctant to die


Written on November 7th, 2014 at 5:47 PM