i stopped coming here, for a while. a long while actually. i miss it more than i would like to admit- for the most part because i miss having an excuse to sit down and force myself to pour out thoughts--
i have traded my dark and light poetry for imagery prose, that much is new. and now i am worried that all of it is going to leave me. its unlike me, or the me i am fairly certain i am, to be so cynical. but what if, one day, i sit down to write and it is the last time i ever write anything?
since im fairly certain no one reads this or will read this ill confess something- i cry everytime i write something important. if it turns out good, the chances are i cried as i wrote it. i suppose i am weepy, but i once heard someone say that there is no chance of the writing gaining tears of the reader if the writer devoted no tears to it, and that statement (in my case at least) is overwhelmingly truthful.
ill confess something else- i dont feel as full of goodness as i used to be. i was so certain of everything, not because i didnt question life- i have always enjoyed questioning it-- but because i knew in absolutes what i thought these answers to be. and regardless, i always found life overflowing with beauty, regardless of if i was happy or sad.
that hasn't changed, for the most part.
is it possible that my obsession with childhood is what has finally made me lose it? that i was so desperate trying to hold onto its fragile skeleton as i remembered it that i lost the sunlight i still had? i dont want to think like that, thoughts like that only make me weepy again, and i dont need help with that
it would seem that i am heartsick and with no nameable cause. once more, i find myself a walking cliche.
shame on me.
i have traded my dark and light poetry for imagery prose, that much is new. and now i am worried that all of it is going to leave me. its unlike me, or the me i am fairly certain i am, to be so cynical. but what if, one day, i sit down to write and it is the last time i ever write anything?
since im fairly certain no one reads this or will read this ill confess something- i cry everytime i write something important. if it turns out good, the chances are i cried as i wrote it. i suppose i am weepy, but i once heard someone say that there is no chance of the writing gaining tears of the reader if the writer devoted no tears to it, and that statement (in my case at least) is overwhelmingly truthful.
ill confess something else- i dont feel as full of goodness as i used to be. i was so certain of everything, not because i didnt question life- i have always enjoyed questioning it-- but because i knew in absolutes what i thought these answers to be. and regardless, i always found life overflowing with beauty, regardless of if i was happy or sad.
that hasn't changed, for the most part.
is it possible that my obsession with childhood is what has finally made me lose it? that i was so desperate trying to hold onto its fragile skeleton as i remembered it that i lost the sunlight i still had? i dont want to think like that, thoughts like that only make me weepy again, and i dont need help with that
it would seem that i am heartsick and with no nameable cause. once more, i find myself a walking cliche.
shame on me.
