(no subject)
I have been reading a book called "How to Talk to Girls About Duran Duran" by Rob Sheffield. It is a wonderful book. I had waited for it to come out for quite some time, having read his other work "Love is a Mix Tape" some time back. Rob Sheffield needs to clone himself and ship that clone out to California. He can weave words around song lyrics, throw in ridiculous pop references (come on now, who really remembers Stratego?) and remind us of the way our favorite music (terrible as some if it may have been) made us feel inside. One of the chapters last night described his first concert going experience, and it was so wonderful. It made me want to write out my own first (non Huey Lewis & The New - ack, my age is showing... kind of) concert details.
Later I was perusing LJ and came across something written here that caught my interest and my breath. It reminded me how I used to be able to tap into those places inside my soul and splatter them across the page, or screen were that the case. Somewhere along the line, I feel I lost that ability. Or, perhaps, I have merely dumbed it down, covered it up, tucked it further behind the wall and into a secret nook where it is safe from prying eyes and I am safe from it.
Words. I love them. I drink them in more readily than water. I could survive more easily without food than without words. And lately, the words of others, be it a famous author who loves music as much as I do or a stranger thousands of miles away, have inspired me to create again. Words. Photos. Words.
And yet... Something sputters and stalls when pen is set to page. Something wraps icy fingers around my heart and says, "These secrets are no longer even yours to spill. You have suffocated them in your efforts to hold them close. No. This box is not yours to open."
The words flow from my honest place. A vulnerable place I shelter from anyone for fear they may one day use the things there to hurt me. Yet perhaps I have only hurt myself. For I've grown too afraid to venture there.
Later I was perusing LJ and came across something written here that caught my interest and my breath. It reminded me how I used to be able to tap into those places inside my soul and splatter them across the page, or screen were that the case. Somewhere along the line, I feel I lost that ability. Or, perhaps, I have merely dumbed it down, covered it up, tucked it further behind the wall and into a secret nook where it is safe from prying eyes and I am safe from it.
Words. I love them. I drink them in more readily than water. I could survive more easily without food than without words. And lately, the words of others, be it a famous author who loves music as much as I do or a stranger thousands of miles away, have inspired me to create again. Words. Photos. Words.
And yet... Something sputters and stalls when pen is set to page. Something wraps icy fingers around my heart and says, "These secrets are no longer even yours to spill. You have suffocated them in your efforts to hold them close. No. This box is not yours to open."
The words flow from my honest place. A vulnerable place I shelter from anyone for fear they may one day use the things there to hurt me. Yet perhaps I have only hurt myself. For I've grown too afraid to venture there.