Unwrite
I used to write nearly everyday. I wrote poetry, essays, short stories. Some of it was worthwhile, some of it sophomoric attempts to live up to my favorite authors. I intended to sit down tonight and write something along those same lines. Ideally I was hoping for something using irony and cynicism (the two literary devices that dominate my thoughts any longer). I typed out a few lines of poetry and each time I did so, I erased everything in disgust.
I don't know why I struggle to write nowadays. I likely have so much more to say than I did some fifteen years ago when I cranked out the written word in copious form with complete disregard for the world outside that green notebook (outside my mind). While some of it was complete shit, some of it surprises me to read today - I made some decent metaphors, some good iambic pentameter, short stories with decent plots and characters.
I struggle so much with the words now. It is a battle that I seem to continuously lose, marching my soldiers into a massacre - turning the blank page red with bleeding vocabulary, fragmented ideas, wounded metaphor. If he were living, Goya would paint the bloodbath. Tennyson would write a poem (a good one, mind) that paints the futile charge as a noble deed. Owen would scoff at the senselessness in poignant, memorable language with perfect word selection.
I don't know why I struggle to write nowadays. I likely have so much more to say than I did some fifteen years ago when I cranked out the written word in copious form with complete disregard for the world outside that green notebook (outside my mind). While some of it was complete shit, some of it surprises me to read today - I made some decent metaphors, some good iambic pentameter, short stories with decent plots and characters.
I struggle so much with the words now. It is a battle that I seem to continuously lose, marching my soldiers into a massacre - turning the blank page red with bleeding vocabulary, fragmented ideas, wounded metaphor. If he were living, Goya would paint the bloodbath. Tennyson would write a poem (a good one, mind) that paints the futile charge as a noble deed. Owen would scoff at the senselessness in poignant, memorable language with perfect word selection.