Jan 14, 2006 00:13
a place once so very familiar..a place i once called home. my old room at my moms house. the walls are barren now, but the bed is still mine. same carpet, same walls, same window, same door with the hole in it (i blame my temper). sometimes i sleep so well here, but thats only when i dont let the past come to haunt me. hauntings dont have to all be bad, but they nevertheless haunt the mind and soul. i feel so detached from here sometimes. is this my home? it seems ive created another place of my own, that only i am a part of. here, i had my mom, brother, and two dogs. sure, i have roommates, but its almost like i have this secret life now that no one really knows about. when i was younger it was if i shared my life with people. back in the days where your friends called you everday. now its down to maybe once every two weeks, (not counting the lonely single friends i have who call when they are alone). i dont feel like my family, friends, or even my most intimate counterpart really know my life. i see people too sparingly. i talk too sparingly. and when i say talk..i mean...TALK. i wish for once i could truly say something of substance. but i dont speak their launguage anyway. things i find interesting or thoughtful dont come out right. the lit theory jargon doesnt make sense. its foreign. the best is left to conversations within i guess. no one wants to talk books, theory, or be honest. lit theory applies everywhere..thats the beauty and the insanity i might also add.
so i am an author, and by author i mean creator of sorts. we all are in different ways. things i try to relate to another (ie. thoughts, feelings, ideas, etc.) are my creation. they come from me. i am the author of those and somewhere between my mouth and your ears there is a disconnect. because what i say and do, no matter what my intent is, will never truly be understood by the reader (person im trying to make my point to, audience). what i say 100% under the audience's interpretation. my intent means nothing. just as an author (writer) writes to convey meaning on a page (text), but the reader (audience) can take whatever is written and make it their own. the written words (the authors "baby" if you will) is lost, making the reader entirely more important than the writer (scriptor) if you will. can anyone TRULY get their intent/meaning/heart/soul across? is man completely and utterly alone in this world (leaving God out of this)? all we have is our own heads, hearts, thoughts. im not being a pessimist, im being real. why any of this?
i always have so much to say, but for me and i think for every one in this world, language isnt enough. its incompetent. it cant sum up anything really. and its a neverending cycle. there is never beginning to language. one word always leads to another and then another. what does the word "fish" mean? its takes more words to define it. and then more words and then more words. a neverending ceaseless circle of emptiness. thats why its all about heart i guess. so intead of telling so and so "i feel this" next time im just going to be silent, because words are meaningless. instead of writing down how i feel when im emotional...i just going to draw or leave a big . because words wont do it justice. and now im so frusterated with the idea of language/words i must stop typing before i punch this screen. and these are the things that keep me up at night.