I have found what you are like ..
I am so lucky to have found friends who share the same interests as me.
There's an irreplaceable warm fuzzy feeling associated with singing in the car with the windows down,
and an unspoken trust that comes with sharing personal stories and poems.
But lately, I've noticed a slightly disturbing trend.
My friend and I switch recent poems. Mine is about wandering and her's is a love poem, and it's gorgeous.
"It's really beautiful," I say, "don't change anything."
"Now I just have to figure out who it's about," she replies.
Later that week, I sit on my other friend's bed and find her poetry notebook, which I know is filled with sorrowful, regretful, and sometimes hateful poems, most of which are directed toward that stupid boy that did her wrong. She tells me to read her new material and I oblidge, but am quickly surprised at the turn of tone. Her red, angry words have melted into a cool, optimistic collection of love poems. She has written of stars and murmurings and fingers intertwined, and I'm taken aback.
"Who are these about?" I ask.
"I don't know yet," she says with a sigh.
I go home and look through my recent work. There is no direction, no theme. The words match my moods - curious and nervous and grateful and happy (so much about that smile) - but, after writing for such a long amount of time, there really isn't anything dramatic or profound.
Because I wait too much.
I wait for inspiration to strike, I wait for the perfect plot to pop into my head, I wait for silence to write so that ideas are lost to time and distractions.
I wait so I waste.
So I have to wonder which is better: real experiences wrapped in sparky words or sparkly hopes disguised as real experiences?
Is it better to muse over what could be someday or what is right in front of you?
And, can over-analyzing hurt us? Should we stick to writing fiction and let our own lives play out without too much thought?
Are things only as real as you make them?
There's an irreplaceable warm fuzzy feeling associated with singing in the car with the windows down,
and an unspoken trust that comes with sharing personal stories and poems.
But lately, I've noticed a slightly disturbing trend.
My friend and I switch recent poems. Mine is about wandering and her's is a love poem, and it's gorgeous.
"It's really beautiful," I say, "don't change anything."
"Now I just have to figure out who it's about," she replies.
Later that week, I sit on my other friend's bed and find her poetry notebook, which I know is filled with sorrowful, regretful, and sometimes hateful poems, most of which are directed toward that stupid boy that did her wrong. She tells me to read her new material and I oblidge, but am quickly surprised at the turn of tone. Her red, angry words have melted into a cool, optimistic collection of love poems. She has written of stars and murmurings and fingers intertwined, and I'm taken aback.
"Who are these about?" I ask.
"I don't know yet," she says with a sigh.
I go home and look through my recent work. There is no direction, no theme. The words match my moods - curious and nervous and grateful and happy (so much about that smile) - but, after writing for such a long amount of time, there really isn't anything dramatic or profound.
Because I wait too much.
I wait for inspiration to strike, I wait for the perfect plot to pop into my head, I wait for silence to write so that ideas are lost to time and distractions.
I wait so I waste.
So I have to wonder which is better: real experiences wrapped in sparky words or sparkly hopes disguised as real experiences?
Is it better to muse over what could be someday or what is right in front of you?
And, can over-analyzing hurt us? Should we stick to writing fiction and let our own lives play out without too much thought?
Are things only as real as you make them?