futility
i found two words scrawled in bright hand on a walk.
i wrote them down and kept them in my back pocket in the fold of my wallet, and i forgot them for a long time.
reaching to pay for cigarettes a mash of paper fell to the floor and i picked it up, looked at it without unfolding it, and remembered.
i threw it away.
those words mean nothing to me anymore.
but i'll always keep them in my dreams, somewhere tucked away.
somehow i wonder if this is really all going anywhere. writing for me has become strictly something i force myself to do. those things never happened and i don't have any emotional investment in the fictional events described. i can write things and hand them to people and they'll tell me it's beautiful and the unspoken question is always "why?" it means very little to me. it's effortless and it feels cheap. in the thirty seconds it took me to write the preceding, i could have written one good line. i just don't have anywhere to start from. rumi wrote of the beauty of the smallest things, as sufis are wont to do - they see the connections and the infinite love in everything. and i am beginning to be able to as well, but for some reason it doesn't come across. i need focus.
so, i'm going to write something that should be written, that's worth being written. something that actually comes from me.
ready?
hey. go.
starting now.
i wrote them down and kept them in my back pocket in the fold of my wallet, and i forgot them for a long time.
reaching to pay for cigarettes a mash of paper fell to the floor and i picked it up, looked at it without unfolding it, and remembered.
i threw it away.
those words mean nothing to me anymore.
but i'll always keep them in my dreams, somewhere tucked away.
somehow i wonder if this is really all going anywhere. writing for me has become strictly something i force myself to do. those things never happened and i don't have any emotional investment in the fictional events described. i can write things and hand them to people and they'll tell me it's beautiful and the unspoken question is always "why?" it means very little to me. it's effortless and it feels cheap. in the thirty seconds it took me to write the preceding, i could have written one good line. i just don't have anywhere to start from. rumi wrote of the beauty of the smallest things, as sufis are wont to do - they see the connections and the infinite love in everything. and i am beginning to be able to as well, but for some reason it doesn't come across. i need focus.
so, i'm going to write something that should be written, that's worth being written. something that actually comes from me.
ready?
hey. go.
starting now.