This bird has flown.
I can't write I can't write I can't write.
I wish I could say that there were words in my head that were clamouring to be heard, to be laid out eloquently, to be gasped over by not only my readers but by myself. Where is that piece of writing that'll make others laud my immense talent while I blush with the contrivance of beauty-queen charity and modestly brush off the compliments knowing full that I deserve all the appreciation? But no, my mind is blank there's nothing to say that isn't entirely vapid no thoughts that don't go back to him nothing that isn't disgustingly mawkish whiny like a spoilt child. God what's with the similes sometimes they inject humour but really, stop already.
"Across the Universe" is playing in the background with the intention of giving me some much needed inspiration:
"Words are flowing out like endless rain..."
"Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box"
"Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns"
Lots of similes there, but Jesus, the writing is so perfect; the imagery is so vivid beautiful and this isn't helping any because I'm not being inspired I'm just thinking I'll never be able to write like that so this is entirely futile. Just be good enough for yourself, they say, but what when your best is barely more than mediocre?
It's hard to grow up and throw your dreams into the same basket as the tooth fairy or infallible parents even though you know your dreams were valid attainable and yet somewhere down the line you got complacent you rested on your laurels a talented 10-year old is only talented at 10 if she doesn't evolve she'll have potential at 15 at 20 she's just ordinary. I had the piano I had my voice I had my writing I had my acting I had an imagination that required harnessing and I threw it all away to be like everyone else to be lazy to be normal to be academically excellent.
It's hard to stare at your 10 year old self and apologise for letting her down for allowing life to become prosaic for doing things like everyone else because she never wanted that. She wanted to be someone, someone special, and you're sending her to law school? Yes you were a precocious kid who wanted to work for Amnesty International and yes this is something you genuinely and passionately care about but this is not your calling this was never your calling this will never be your calling. You used to revel in creativity spend hours in your room alone acting out plays and stories you scripted with so much detail and fervour in your head you were an actress a singer a performer a writer you did all those things with equal enthusiasm and talent.
-----------------------------
There was a time when I was severely unhappy, but all that miserable energy, the feelings of intellectual and social impotence, the enthused determination of self-destruction translated perfectly to stories of lives eagerly removed from my mine but now that I'm happy worthy sufficient, the only thing I can write about is my own life, my own stupid experiences. Imagination has all but abandoned me.
This isn't always true but if, like in my experience, misery begets productivity, I'd choose happiness over and above creativity without a second thought. But damn, I miss the bastard.
I wish I could say that there were words in my head that were clamouring to be heard, to be laid out eloquently, to be gasped over by not only my readers but by myself. Where is that piece of writing that'll make others laud my immense talent while I blush with the contrivance of beauty-queen charity and modestly brush off the compliments knowing full that I deserve all the appreciation? But no, my mind is blank there's nothing to say that isn't entirely vapid no thoughts that don't go back to him nothing that isn't disgustingly mawkish whiny like a spoilt child. God what's with the similes sometimes they inject humour but really, stop already.
"Across the Universe" is playing in the background with the intention of giving me some much needed inspiration:
"Words are flowing out like endless rain..."
"Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box"
"Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns"
Lots of similes there, but Jesus, the writing is so perfect; the imagery is so vivid beautiful and this isn't helping any because I'm not being inspired I'm just thinking I'll never be able to write like that so this is entirely futile. Just be good enough for yourself, they say, but what when your best is barely more than mediocre?
It's hard to grow up and throw your dreams into the same basket as the tooth fairy or infallible parents even though you know your dreams were valid attainable and yet somewhere down the line you got complacent you rested on your laurels a talented 10-year old is only talented at 10 if she doesn't evolve she'll have potential at 15 at 20 she's just ordinary. I had the piano I had my voice I had my writing I had my acting I had an imagination that required harnessing and I threw it all away to be like everyone else to be lazy to be normal to be academically excellent.
It's hard to stare at your 10 year old self and apologise for letting her down for allowing life to become prosaic for doing things like everyone else because she never wanted that. She wanted to be someone, someone special, and you're sending her to law school? Yes you were a precocious kid who wanted to work for Amnesty International and yes this is something you genuinely and passionately care about but this is not your calling this was never your calling this will never be your calling. You used to revel in creativity spend hours in your room alone acting out plays and stories you scripted with so much detail and fervour in your head you were an actress a singer a performer a writer you did all those things with equal enthusiasm and talent.
-----------------------------
There was a time when I was severely unhappy, but all that miserable energy, the feelings of intellectual and social impotence, the enthused determination of self-destruction translated perfectly to stories of lives eagerly removed from my mine but now that I'm happy worthy sufficient, the only thing I can write about is my own life, my own stupid experiences. Imagination has all but abandoned me.
This isn't always true but if, like in my experience, misery begets productivity, I'd choose happiness over and above creativity without a second thought. But damn, I miss the bastard.
posted by Auri @ 4:45 PM
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