(no subject)
Wailing your sorrow is only my way to comfort you
Reminders of innocent youth
Waiting for morrow, you're lonely, I name your solitude
I speaketh the truth
I am the thorn in your side that seaks accomplishment
Reminding the mortal of death
I am the spore of your pride, an angel heaven sent
Master of all
I am the urge of the flesh
~March of Mephisto~
~Kamelot~
...It's me.
In Creative Writing class, we've been studying lots of strange stuff. The nature of reality, the technique to best tell stories... but most importantly, and by far the most perplexing?
The story we need to tell.
Truth is, I don't have one. Not really. I don't have the tragic life with oh-such-woe happenings and the insight and perspective on life that brings the reader to tears. I just don't have that.
But I do have Muses. And by my own sorrows and inspiration, I tell their stories.
It may be partially mine then, I guess. I understand it. And I try to comprehend it. But how do you know sorrows like that when you're someone like me? Someone so happy and so guarded, with such a perfect damn life?
Moreover. I've found over the years something a little strange with me. Or more, a little strange with some of my friends.
I befriend the oddballs. The outcasts of society and the people who, in some way, aren't all 'right'. And that's not to say that all my friends are like that, but I've noticed that I am almost drawn to these people.
It's like if I can hear their sorrows, their insecurities, and help by just listening and being there? By having an open ear that they can trust? By listening, hearing, understanding and maybe just barely starting to comprehend... I can help. Make a difference. Prove my worth.
I've come to discover that I write for myself, but moreover, I write for what I see and those around me. I sing the sorrows of others, maybe to better understand them and myself. With my 'brains' and smarts or whatever you want to call it, what I often call my only worth? I can name their sorrows and start to comprehend and feel for them.
And maybe, just maybe, if I actually help... maybe one day, if I write the stories of not only my Muses, but of my friends, and sorrows and injustices I see... I can be the angel heaven-sent. Their angel, heaven-sent.
I'm not all I could be yet. I have a ways to grow, a ways to break, and a lot to learn. But one day... maybe.
I am a writer. And one day, assured, I will do these stories justice.
New icon, by the way. Yeah. Ohmygod, no Sonic characters. >.>