Jul 29, 2013 12:40
You don’t understand.
Give me the gritty. Give me the real. Give me the truths that hurt, that cut, that make me bleed. Don’t shelter me from the world. Don’t hide me away (by wrapping me in cotton wool). Give me something that makes me feel alive. Give me a reason to exist. Give me something to strive for. Give me a beautiful mirage and make me grow when I realise I can never touch it.
Give me death, and pain and loss, and when you write, make it visceral, so it aches for days. Fuck me with your words, and then soothe me and make love to me. Kiss me like you mean it, through the pages of your stories, and touch my soul. Make me cry. Make me feel. Make me beg.
You don’t understand!
There are no happy endings. Only hopeful beginnings, and stressful middles, and teetering and cautious and death is the only ending. Don’t ride into the sunset vicariously. There is no horse, and you are no prince.
Stop sugar coating it -
Each word you write is a piece of your soul. Show it to me. That’s what I want to see. I want to see your soul. I want to hold your heart, soft and still-beating in the palm of my hand. Just because I don’t believe in happy endings doesn’t mean I don’t believe in miracles.
I can see that you don’t understand.
When I ask for the truth, I’m looking for the truth. Not the real world. Death is death, whether it happens tomorrow or whether it happened 500 years ago, or whether it happens on a planet, in galaxy far, far away. Loss is the same, regardless of your skin colour. I don’t care whether you’re writing about cowboys or aliens or ballerinas or all of the above. Give me truth. Tell me why she dances; don’t tell me that she just does.
Tell me why the bird flies, and why the fish swims, and why anyone ever does what they do. You are a writer. Your gift is insight. Your job is to tell me the truth. It doesn’t matter that you are not as fish - it never has. It only matters that your heart beats, just like mine. And that we dream, even if we dream of different things. It matters that we dream. So tell me the truth. Tell me why.
Do you understand?
So, this happened. I was doing an application and I opened up a word document and started typing, and ten minutes later I had this. I think it's my subconscious talking about the recent dearth of good books, and good articles and good writers. I have no idea what's going on, but I'm pretty happy with it. Yeah. *wanders away*
i don't even know anymore,
i'm really upset and don't know why,
i think i broke my brain,
stuff,
soap-box time,
exaustion,
feeling old,
writing