Highly Experimental
This journal entry is taking me forever, mostly because I started out trying to write a short story, which eventually evolved into the free-form poetry you see below. Actually, I’m not an English major and have no idea whether or not what I’ve written below counts as free-form poetry, or indeed any kind of poetry at all, but that’s the term that I’m going to use, seeing as how it’s not really arranged in any sort of a discernable pattern, but exists just as a block of text. Philosophical rants like this might become a regular feature around here, or this might be the only one I ever do - if you’re reading this, drop me a line and let me know what you think. Seriously, I’d really like some feedback on whatever the hell it is I’m doing here.
My parents informed me just today they’ve begun reading my journal entries, which to be honest, makes me feel a little more nervous about everything I write. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents, but my creative writing is typically a little darker and more cynical than what most people like to read, and so having someone that close to you read your work can be scary.
Here’s the above-mentioned poem, which was supposed to be part of a short story I may end up writing one of these days:
It is a seldom acknowledged but bittersweet fact of life that during moments of almost unbearable fear and anxiety one’s mind feels as though it is being drowned in boiling water, and the most peculiar memories, long believed to have been faded beyond recognition, come bubbling to the surface with a vividness of detail and immediate importance as though they were being relived in the present time. The recollections were never of any necessity to the horrific situation at hand - they were merely the result of the brain grasping at straws, looking for any means of flight from reality - and thus the moments were dismissed as soon as they had returned to their original owner, to be cast aside for new, more pressing concerns. Like friends returning just in time for the death of a loved one, they had come home to find themselves unneeded - the comfort that they could provide only a distraction, a red herring to events that took precedence over all else.
My parents informed me just today they’ve begun reading my journal entries, which to be honest, makes me feel a little more nervous about everything I write. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents, but my creative writing is typically a little darker and more cynical than what most people like to read, and so having someone that close to you read your work can be scary.
Here’s the above-mentioned poem, which was supposed to be part of a short story I may end up writing one of these days:
It is a seldom acknowledged but bittersweet fact of life that during moments of almost unbearable fear and anxiety one’s mind feels as though it is being drowned in boiling water, and the most peculiar memories, long believed to have been faded beyond recognition, come bubbling to the surface with a vividness of detail and immediate importance as though they were being relived in the present time. The recollections were never of any necessity to the horrific situation at hand - they were merely the result of the brain grasping at straws, looking for any means of flight from reality - and thus the moments were dismissed as soon as they had returned to their original owner, to be cast aside for new, more pressing concerns. Like friends returning just in time for the death of a loved one, they had come home to find themselves unneeded - the comfort that they could provide only a distraction, a red herring to events that took precedence over all else.