Shameless and Aimless
It's bloody early in the morning. Another dawn another day of rain -emotional drain. I've been here a little while now watching and writing when I get the chance, but, am I doing anything? I continually read and decipher other people's thoughts and ideas and come to the conclusion that writing is... or at least should be .... for our own soul. I don't know much about this money racket people are clamouring about. I could care less if I ever make a dime... and from the way its been going I will likely not make a cent.
But that said, I used to write. I used to have ideas that I have never expressed before come to me and be able to present them for the first time without shame, without second guessing. I am here now, guessing and re-guessing what it is that people will want to read. And the reality is that I will never be able to get a 100 score if I don't write at all. Which is what I had been doing. I see a few of the people I am a fan of writing frantically, daily, sometimes drivel but its out there. I never knew that it could be like that. I don't want it to be like that for me. I want to be able to write a piece of work that can be appreciated and understood, and questioned, and I wanna be challenged by the reader to produce more, different, diverse pieces and to be adored... lol... someday.
But I don't get the feeling that this will happen. I feel emotionally stunted by 'regular' life, it slowly takes away my ability to distance myself and to provide that buffer where my mind isn't just busied with regular every day events, things I need to do, things I don't want to do, things I would rather not do, things I know I should do. I wanna write with no limits, and no boundaries, I want to write without borders and debilitating doubt. I want to write a sonnet and a prose and a novel and an epic and let the pages burst with emotion and revel in its messiness, its unkempt-ness, its brutal honesty. I want to write messy dirty things that make people FEEL something. I don't have time to research butt creams and diapers and write an op-ed piece on which item in the market is the best. Nor do I care to politicalize - though my opinion matters (to me at least)- the 'real world'. There's enough (mis)information out there without my half crazy notions being plastered on the net.
I am encouraged by the poetic ramblings of others. They know not how to keep their stuff tidy and neat, they let the messiness exist as it is. I'm loving reading that kind of stuff. I don't have it in me right now "to go there" and find "that" place. I wish I did. I so want to be 'there'.. in the moment with my thoughts, not my responsibilities, and for them to explode from my soul out there on the canvas that is life, for others to interpret and disect, for others to see my messy mind and say "Ah... that was a good piece"... and to feel what I wrote... for my writing to be an experience the reader would not want to trade for the world. Oh the glory in that. The absolute rush of knowing someone got something from what was in my hollowed helmet. Oh I wait for that day. I dream for it. One day.
In the mean time I have to fight and push for something other than grocery lists, and laundry reminders to come to light, to make these disappear into the 'ether-realm' so that my creativity can breath. This is a task that all writers at some time face. I am not stunted, or dis-abled, I am shaded by my daily living. A cloud exists over my world of creative thought. The sun no where in sight. Alas, for now I digress. Sleep has taken over.