A writer whose hands are encased in a block.
"Hit the ground.
Legs spread wide open in a display of fear and courage. Moving almost silently down narrow pathways carved by rotten concrete and decaying trash, filtered through to vision by the dead glow of street lamps casting second shadows over everything. The blue vial was getting heavy, but I held fast to it. "
I wrote this in high school. It's a lot better than a lot of stuff that I've written lately.
Not that I've written a lot of stuff lately. I mean, I'm comparing this story to my recent livejournal entries and the shit I've been writing for classes, and that's just not much competition compared to when I was so into my writing that only my majorly intense occupation with depression and self-fulfilling prophesies impeded my talent. Seriously, you can only take so many pity poems about not finding that "true love that is unattainable" paradoxical treasure before you degenerate into a sniveling pile of pity, contracted from the filth spewing out of my fingers. But filth must be purged in order to write cleanly sometimes, and results like this untitled short story of mine came from applying my poetic imagery to prose, what I used to call poetry in motion (which really doesn't make any sense, but what the hell, right? I guess filtered stream-of-consciousness would be a better term).
Then later, during my first year of college, a poetry writing class I took (at another college) helped me to expand my poetry further than self-pity. Sure, some remained, but I was able to channel it into various forms, such as describing a heroin addiction (without ever having tried it) and even turning it around into a melancholy look on the brighter side of life. Fuck, man, I've even progressed until I took a Creative Writing class at Western, but that's the last I've really wrote anything. It's like I have to be motivated by something to just write. Like a frustration caused by not writing.
The most effective way for me to transmit thought is by writing (especially when I'm stoned. Mostly because it gives me time to pause and gather the appropriate words.), and this is why sometimes I just stand silent, because I'm gathering my thoughts, or I'm simply lost in them. If I had something familiar to write on, I can get some thoughts out, but lately I've had to get used to a new laptop. Perhaps that's a reason I've been slack to write lately. It's not an excuse for much longer, though, because I've had Mother (named after the main computer in Alien) a few months now, and I'm liking her a good amount. I've typed a few things on her now, and all my notes for class for the past two months.
It's almost 2 am. I have class and an outline to print out two copies of tomorrow by 11:30. Woo. Time to say The End.
(for now)
Legs spread wide open in a display of fear and courage. Moving almost silently down narrow pathways carved by rotten concrete and decaying trash, filtered through to vision by the dead glow of street lamps casting second shadows over everything. The blue vial was getting heavy, but I held fast to it. "
I wrote this in high school. It's a lot better than a lot of stuff that I've written lately.
Not that I've written a lot of stuff lately. I mean, I'm comparing this story to my recent livejournal entries and the shit I've been writing for classes, and that's just not much competition compared to when I was so into my writing that only my majorly intense occupation with depression and self-fulfilling prophesies impeded my talent. Seriously, you can only take so many pity poems about not finding that "true love that is unattainable" paradoxical treasure before you degenerate into a sniveling pile of pity, contracted from the filth spewing out of my fingers. But filth must be purged in order to write cleanly sometimes, and results like this untitled short story of mine came from applying my poetic imagery to prose, what I used to call poetry in motion (which really doesn't make any sense, but what the hell, right? I guess filtered stream-of-consciousness would be a better term).
Then later, during my first year of college, a poetry writing class I took (at another college) helped me to expand my poetry further than self-pity. Sure, some remained, but I was able to channel it into various forms, such as describing a heroin addiction (without ever having tried it) and even turning it around into a melancholy look on the brighter side of life. Fuck, man, I've even progressed until I took a Creative Writing class at Western, but that's the last I've really wrote anything. It's like I have to be motivated by something to just write. Like a frustration caused by not writing.
The most effective way for me to transmit thought is by writing (especially when I'm stoned. Mostly because it gives me time to pause and gather the appropriate words.), and this is why sometimes I just stand silent, because I'm gathering my thoughts, or I'm simply lost in them. If I had something familiar to write on, I can get some thoughts out, but lately I've had to get used to a new laptop. Perhaps that's a reason I've been slack to write lately. It's not an excuse for much longer, though, because I've had Mother (named after the main computer in Alien) a few months now, and I'm liking her a good amount. I've typed a few things on her now, and all my notes for class for the past two months.
It's almost 2 am. I have class and an outline to print out two copies of tomorrow by 11:30. Woo. Time to say The End.
(for now)