The genocide of orthodoxy
I’m writing this for all the wrong reasons. I’m not feeling it at all. For years I’ve dreamt of being a writer. Of being admired, of making someone read a passage penned by me that would send chills down your spine. That it would spark your mind so greatly that an electrical current full of emotion and passion would ignite and cover your body. You would combust in imagination simply because I placed words the right way.
I still want that to be me, but I have lost the desire. I have neither the will nor the way. Beside me sits a book called “The Art of Fiction: Notes On Craft For the Young Writer.” I haven’t read past page thirty, because it only makes me realize what a true novice I am. Not even a tyro, a charlatan. I’m no writer.
If I described something for you, could tell me what emotion I was feeling? Okay, well let’s try. I’ll describe something and you tell me if I did a good job and if you can tell what it’s metaphorical for. Actually, nevermind, it's not like I make sense anyway. And this isn't English class.
It moved slowly and divided the forest almost equally. Trees hung over its water and dropped their orange leaves to give it this beautiful shimmer and vibrant look (what is this a shampoo commercial?) that had been tainted and made cliche by John Deere calendars. I guess nothing is really sacred anymore. Where do we find true aesthetics these days? This place was once a temple to true beauty, but now I stare at it with indifference that is unsettling. The shallow water due to this summer’s drought has only added to the clarity of the stream. I could see right to the bottom.
I’ve been here for hours, and nothing. I stare at the bottom. I keep my eyes on the brown, smooth rocks. I try to hear their story. The story of the beginning of time, but I hear nothing. I feel nothing. The sun comes through the branches and I remember being a child and thinking sunshine like that just had to be what the road to Heaven was made of.
I’ve been here for hours, and nothing.
I still want that to be me, but I have lost the desire. I have neither the will nor the way. Beside me sits a book called “The Art of Fiction: Notes On Craft For the Young Writer.” I haven’t read past page thirty, because it only makes me realize what a true novice I am. Not even a tyro, a charlatan. I’m no writer.
If I described something for you, could tell me what emotion I was feeling? Okay, well let’s try. I’ll describe something and you tell me if I did a good job and if you can tell what it’s metaphorical for. Actually, nevermind, it's not like I make sense anyway. And this isn't English class.
It moved slowly and divided the forest almost equally. Trees hung over its water and dropped their orange leaves to give it this beautiful shimmer and vibrant look (what is this a shampoo commercial?) that had been tainted and made cliche by John Deere calendars. I guess nothing is really sacred anymore. Where do we find true aesthetics these days? This place was once a temple to true beauty, but now I stare at it with indifference that is unsettling. The shallow water due to this summer’s drought has only added to the clarity of the stream. I could see right to the bottom.
I’ve been here for hours, and nothing. I stare at the bottom. I keep my eyes on the brown, smooth rocks. I try to hear their story. The story of the beginning of time, but I hear nothing. I feel nothing. The sun comes through the branches and I remember being a child and thinking sunshine like that just had to be what the road to Heaven was made of.
I’ve been here for hours, and nothing.