Time Has Been Stranger
So since last year I've been considering this writing contest at school, it's fiction and poetry. My poetry is rather trite and my fiction is usually crap. Because I can't truly step outside myself and write unbothered by my own experience, which is what I think fiction truly is. Writing about other people, influenced by yourself, is cheap.
But the other day I got to thinking.
Maybe if you merely change the roles around, then it's okay.
I've chosen to write stories about death and love and crying and sadness.
Like all those books I hated and was forced to read in 6th grade.
Teen sleaze.
It's a story I wrote about myself.
It's a story in a style I made for myself and found repeated in pages of new books I found at my grandmother's house.
Those were about addicts, this is about dying.
I created a plot about breaking down and losing colors, everything turning grey and music dissapearing.
How that would happen for me. To lose poetry.
And then I dreamt it.
The other night I woke up thinking that I had just broken apart.
But it was a dream. I dreamt the twist and images and the downright pain this would want to contain.
So maybe this is proper fiction after all.
It might be too much to let other people read though.
I sat there for about an hour last night listening to the same song that made me cry over and over, not because I wanted it to make me cry but because it was the perfect song to listen to.
And the fact of this is that I think I wrote something proper. Something perfect by my own terms at the age of 15.
And I got to see Jill yesterday, and she is beautiful.
I've started to have a growing obsession with birds lately.
stars-clouds-rain-birds
It's a natural progression in a way.
But the other day I got to thinking.
Maybe if you merely change the roles around, then it's okay.
I've chosen to write stories about death and love and crying and sadness.
Like all those books I hated and was forced to read in 6th grade.
Teen sleaze.
It's a story I wrote about myself.
It's a story in a style I made for myself and found repeated in pages of new books I found at my grandmother's house.
Those were about addicts, this is about dying.
I created a plot about breaking down and losing colors, everything turning grey and music dissapearing.
How that would happen for me. To lose poetry.
And then I dreamt it.
The other night I woke up thinking that I had just broken apart.
But it was a dream. I dreamt the twist and images and the downright pain this would want to contain.
So maybe this is proper fiction after all.
It might be too much to let other people read though.
I sat there for about an hour last night listening to the same song that made me cry over and over, not because I wanted it to make me cry but because it was the perfect song to listen to.
And the fact of this is that I think I wrote something proper. Something perfect by my own terms at the age of 15.
And I got to see Jill yesterday, and she is beautiful.
I've started to have a growing obsession with birds lately.
stars-clouds-rain-birds
It's a natural progression in a way.