(no subject)
I want my solitude.
I always forget how easy it is for me to get swept away in my writing. How sometimes I just want to take the computer and stow it away in my room and barracade the door and let no life in. And just lose myself amongst these precious things. These words. They hold life. I lose myself in this facade I've created, about being realistic and responsible. I hate it most of the time. But I plaster a smile on my face, sometimes a grimace, and sideward glances at the life form standing next to me. Wondering what could they possibly think about my ridiculous face, does it look intriuging to them? Do I seem like there's nothing going on behind that big forehead. I am reminded of a very few handful of people who inspire me to express this more than any other. And Justin is no longer one of them. Lesley is a sole barrer of that. There isn't a word she writes, a thought she thinks, an expression she wears that doesn't make me want to whip out a pen and paper and forget that I live on a round planet with life and not a sheet of paper. A squiggle across the void. Thats how it starts. A void place. A blank paper. A blank screen. And a mind filled with a hundred, thousand words flowing together in a mess. There are two movies that come to mind that I desperatly want to watch at the moment.
The Hours and I Capture The Castle.
What if I don't go back to school? Am I doomed for the rest of my life? Because all I honestly want to do is write. I miss this. I miss writing stories and poems. I haven't written a poem in so very long. And I haven't written a story in even longer than that. I start them and never come back to them. Never. I hate that about myself.
Is it lack of inspiration? Lack of concentration? My surroundings? I feel like I've lost my ability to get lost in my dreams. If I start too, I feel guilty for doing so because I'm 20 now and have to be more responsible wether I like it or not. My whole life has been nothing but being lost in my own dreams. Even when I was little, I used to wander around my neighborhood and just lose myself. And it was very often that I found myself in the woods walking and thinking and dreaming. I can remember sitting in my very favorite tree, and it wasn't a terribly long walk from the comfort of my house. It was a Magnolia tree with incredible, endless height to it. And I would climb it, not weary of the ground, not weary of the sky, and not weary of what animal or creature might meet me on my way to the top. But it was me and the tree, the roughness of it and at the same time it was smooth, and it left a dusty feel to my hands. And the tree limbs would shake as I clambered to the top. Making rustling noises as I went, and the great, big shiney leaves would clap on top of one another making smacking noises as I went. And there I sat, for hours at a time, staring out into the woods and watching the quiet life that resided inside my own world. And on occassion, watch from above as the neighboring adventurers would venture down below to find their solace somewhere among the trees. Somewhere among the creek. The water would trickle on their ankles and feet as they tread through it with no fears what so ever. No apprehensions. No questioning what the other side of the bank might bring.
As I would climb down to solid ground, somewhere back around reality, I'd find myself walking a familar path deeper and deeper into the woods. Listening to the breaking of leaves and branches and twigs as I went. Under my feet they would rustle. And I tread along this path, relishing in the silence that was given to me on my rambles. There were so many days like that. I knew that entire neighborhood like the back of my hand. It was etched into my memory like a lost map to recover some hidden treasure.
Since I've been back to the house I grew up, right next to my very own wood. Beetles and termites have taken it over, killed the majority of the trees and the paths that we made as children, have all but faded from the ground. My magnolia tree remains, it's height towering much bigger than I remembered. The creek still runs it's course through the woods and the trout my older brother and his friends caught and put in the creek are thriving. Though the paths are faded and many of the trees have died, I can still find that place, somewhere in the depths, hidden in my mind.
I always forget how easy it is for me to get swept away in my writing. How sometimes I just want to take the computer and stow it away in my room and barracade the door and let no life in. And just lose myself amongst these precious things. These words. They hold life. I lose myself in this facade I've created, about being realistic and responsible. I hate it most of the time. But I plaster a smile on my face, sometimes a grimace, and sideward glances at the life form standing next to me. Wondering what could they possibly think about my ridiculous face, does it look intriuging to them? Do I seem like there's nothing going on behind that big forehead. I am reminded of a very few handful of people who inspire me to express this more than any other. And Justin is no longer one of them. Lesley is a sole barrer of that. There isn't a word she writes, a thought she thinks, an expression she wears that doesn't make me want to whip out a pen and paper and forget that I live on a round planet with life and not a sheet of paper. A squiggle across the void. Thats how it starts. A void place. A blank paper. A blank screen. And a mind filled with a hundred, thousand words flowing together in a mess. There are two movies that come to mind that I desperatly want to watch at the moment.
The Hours and I Capture The Castle.
What if I don't go back to school? Am I doomed for the rest of my life? Because all I honestly want to do is write. I miss this. I miss writing stories and poems. I haven't written a poem in so very long. And I haven't written a story in even longer than that. I start them and never come back to them. Never. I hate that about myself.
Is it lack of inspiration? Lack of concentration? My surroundings? I feel like I've lost my ability to get lost in my dreams. If I start too, I feel guilty for doing so because I'm 20 now and have to be more responsible wether I like it or not. My whole life has been nothing but being lost in my own dreams. Even when I was little, I used to wander around my neighborhood and just lose myself. And it was very often that I found myself in the woods walking and thinking and dreaming. I can remember sitting in my very favorite tree, and it wasn't a terribly long walk from the comfort of my house. It was a Magnolia tree with incredible, endless height to it. And I would climb it, not weary of the ground, not weary of the sky, and not weary of what animal or creature might meet me on my way to the top. But it was me and the tree, the roughness of it and at the same time it was smooth, and it left a dusty feel to my hands. And the tree limbs would shake as I clambered to the top. Making rustling noises as I went, and the great, big shiney leaves would clap on top of one another making smacking noises as I went. And there I sat, for hours at a time, staring out into the woods and watching the quiet life that resided inside my own world. And on occassion, watch from above as the neighboring adventurers would venture down below to find their solace somewhere among the trees. Somewhere among the creek. The water would trickle on their ankles and feet as they tread through it with no fears what so ever. No apprehensions. No questioning what the other side of the bank might bring.
As I would climb down to solid ground, somewhere back around reality, I'd find myself walking a familar path deeper and deeper into the woods. Listening to the breaking of leaves and branches and twigs as I went. Under my feet they would rustle. And I tread along this path, relishing in the silence that was given to me on my rambles. There were so many days like that. I knew that entire neighborhood like the back of my hand. It was etched into my memory like a lost map to recover some hidden treasure.
Since I've been back to the house I grew up, right next to my very own wood. Beetles and termites have taken it over, killed the majority of the trees and the paths that we made as children, have all but faded from the ground. My magnolia tree remains, it's height towering much bigger than I remembered. The creek still runs it's course through the woods and the trout my older brother and his friends caught and put in the creek are thriving. Though the paths are faded and many of the trees have died, I can still find that place, somewhere in the depths, hidden in my mind.