Tuesday, May 03, 2011, 9:14 pm
It's been a while my old friend. You, my words, that used to be my one vent. I don't even remember the last time I wrote for the sake of writing, the act of writing for myself and not a purpose. These days that's all I seem to do, write for someone or to achieve something. My writing has turned into the means to an end and along the path of adapting myself I seem to be losing something far more important, my ability to write.
There was a time when I could sit down for a few minutes and polish off a page full of words that left me happy, left me satisfied. I haven't felt that in a long long time, the simple feeling of being happy with what I've written. Even right now I can feel some change come over. Like these little darkening pixels are taking a little bit of darkness away from me. My writing is my therapy. It is the one thing that stuck by me and stuck with me, helping me through the worst of times and keeping me up through the best of them.
These days I doubt the simplest thing. Can I write? Of course, not in the literal sense of it, I'm writing right now. I mean in the deeper sense of it. I remember writing things that made people wonder, I have vague recollections of people lauding and applauding me for a string of words. Where has all that gone? It's not like I've forgotten the words, I still use the same everyday. Have I lost my craft? That's it isn't it. But, I wouldn't use the term 'lost', maybe just 'misplaced'. Or have I become cynical, demotivated or just plain dumb? I refuse to believe that I have. I know somewhere, under a lot of filth and dust, lies that brilliant writer that I thought I was. I just have to dig him out and make him stand on his own two feet again. I have to pick him up and get him crafting again.
And maybe, the answer is showing itself. It's these words. The words I thought I'd lost, the thoughts that I fear had wandered away from me, these are what will bring me back. I need, I must keep writing. I must keep pouring my heart out on a blank white sheet and watching it fill up with the colour of my anguish. As black as ink, now I realise the weight of the term.
It's been a while my old friend. You, my words, that used to be my one vent. I don't even remember the last time I wrote for the sake of writing, the act of writing for myself and not a purpose. These days that's all I seem to do, write for someone or to achieve something. My writing has turned into the means to an end and along the path of adapting myself I seem to be losing something far more important, my ability to write.
There was a time when I could sit down for a few minutes and polish off a page full of words that left me happy, left me satisfied. I haven't felt that in a long long time, the simple feeling of being happy with what I've written. Even right now I can feel some change come over. Like these little darkening pixels are taking a little bit of darkness away from me. My writing is my therapy. It is the one thing that stuck by me and stuck with me, helping me through the worst of times and keeping me up through the best of them.
These days I doubt the simplest thing. Can I write? Of course, not in the literal sense of it, I'm writing right now. I mean in the deeper sense of it. I remember writing things that made people wonder, I have vague recollections of people lauding and applauding me for a string of words. Where has all that gone? It's not like I've forgotten the words, I still use the same everyday. Have I lost my craft? That's it isn't it. But, I wouldn't use the term 'lost', maybe just 'misplaced'. Or have I become cynical, demotivated or just plain dumb? I refuse to believe that I have. I know somewhere, under a lot of filth and dust, lies that brilliant writer that I thought I was. I just have to dig him out and make him stand on his own two feet again. I have to pick him up and get him crafting again.
And maybe, the answer is showing itself. It's these words. The words I thought I'd lost, the thoughts that I fear had wandered away from me, these are what will bring me back. I need, I must keep writing. I must keep pouring my heart out on a blank white sheet and watching it fill up with the colour of my anguish. As black as ink, now I realise the weight of the term.
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