Glade of Sorrow
This is a rant
It has nothing specifically to do with my life
It is just a rant
If you do infact take the time to read it, please, don't misinterpret it
The section of the story I placed in here, titled 'Glade of Sorrow', does not reflect anything I'm feeling at this moment, frankly, when I'm in an okay to awesome mood, I don't write/draw happy things
Enjoy~
I feel like writing quite often. It’s almost a daily occurrence. Just a sudden urge to put to paper all the things I know about the world. I wish to cultivate random garble into something extraordinary, something that will leave the reader stunned and thoughtful. I sit and think and understand every thought in my head, but when it comes to getting it down on this paper.. I can’t do it.
I lose everything I just thought of. Every feeling in my body vanishes.
I know the general subject of which I wish to write, I know what inspires me to write, but the words don’t flow as easily as my thoughts.
Not only that, whenever I find myself reading over my work I’m always disgusted. Nothing I say, nothing I write is as melodic as anything I read or see. I can’t find the same relaxing motion of words as they can, my favorite writers. Obviously, I’m not cut out for a job anywhere in this field, good thing it’s not my dream.
Why do lines work so much better for me than words? How can I express everything through pictures, and not find anything to actually describe that feeling? If I was to set a redundant scene, let’s say a clearing towards the middle of a forest...
________________________________________________________
...One in which the trees are closely knitted together, save but a few. These few you’ve carved your path through, this path having led you to this enchanting field. Everything that could’ve been alive in this clearing seems to have vanished, the quiet seems to burn your very being. This clearing’s existence is accented with a simple stump exactly in the
middle of it all. How perfectly unusual it seems. You place your hand on the tree next to you as you let out a small gasp of wonder.
How quickly you step back as you hear a rustling in the shadows behind the trees before you. Your hand still upon the tree, you carefully peek forward, curiosity compelling you to disregard the possibility of danger. It... no... she appears out of the dark mass. She comes forward, completely oblivious of you, or perhaps it is just that she has no interest. The soft light darkens every crease on her body, as well as emphasizes every curve. Silver hair glitters, just as it was made to. Deep, dark green eyes give off a feel of sorrow
and loneliness as they survey the scene around them. Never have you seen such a saddened soul.
You can’t help but ache for her, her dread as each day approaches, her reluctance to go on. How much you want to cry for her, how much you want to see her smile. You bite your lip and tighten your grip on the tree. Your surge of emotion is leaving you off guard, and you know that could be a problem. Your sense of reality kicks in, this woman, whoever she is, is truly none of your business. You at the moment are at fault for spying
on such a wretched creature. Despite your want, your absolute need to help this pitiful thing, would she want the help of someone she doesn’t know? Someone who, out of nowhere, decides it’s their job to solve all of her problems? You yourself would never accept such help, you know this.
In the time it’s taken you to sort through all these feelings, she’s taken her seat upon that perfect stump you had seen earlier. Her potential beauty renders you helpless. As you watch, you know she’s nothing special, that’s not what gets you, it’s what she could be. What she would be if she wasn’t so drowned in anguish.
As she looks to the sky you notice how routine her movements are. This clearing is obviously her spot. This is where she comes to escape it all... much too often. Whatever she’s thinking about, it leaves her face bland, so monotone. She shields herself from her own thought process, refusing to think of anything that causes her pain, which is, as far as you can tell, everything in her life, with the exception of this one little clearing.
Her face is completely wiped clean of any trace of what you saw when she first appeared. Almost like stone, or perhaps more like glass.. solid, yet so fragile. Despite her efforts, her wall is flawed, the glass shatters, and she crumples into a sobbing mass. Her cries of agony echo through the silent glade. Your reason dissolves, and as you slump to the grass
floor, you let out a sob more miserable than her own.
Her mewlings end with a slight yelp as she surveys the wood around her. She knows you’re there, no use hiding now. Her depressing demeanor is left behind for the moment as she fears what she cannot see.. you. You’re overwhelmed with dismay at causing this creature more grief. You decide that, despite your better judgment, rather than leave the poor thing scared and alone, you’ll muster up the courage and let yourself be known. With a deep breath you haul yourself up to a standing position. You pause... Ready to face the consequences, you leave your only refuge and finally expose yourself to her.
_________________________________________________________
Now tell me, did this leave you wondering what would happen next? Did you want to know how she would react to your presence? Did you feel her pain? I don’t seem to feel any of that reading over my own material. Maybe that’s because I already felt it as I wrote it. Maybe it’s because I’m critical of myself, or maybe, maybe I’m right, and I’m just not cut out for writing.
Don’t tell me it was good, or better than you could do. Frankly, I could write a five word sentence, bitch about it as much as I am now, and you’d probably say the same thing. Instead, what I’m interested in is, did it flow? Was it as easy to read as some of your favorite books? Can you see yourself taking time out of your day to read something similar? I don’t care if you’d spend your time reading something because I wrote it, that’s not worth a thing. You’ve got to read something because you enjoy it, because somehow the author was able to make a point with you, was able to get something across. I feel that I am unable to do as such. I’m not as much cut out for writing.
With lines however.. Now, I wouldn’t be able to go through the entire scenario, unless of course I made a story board of pictures. But if I was to make a picture of the final scene described, her sitting on the stump, tears streaming down her face as she stares at you in fear, awe, god knows what, and you, you trying to make yourself seem harmless, your face reflecting her sorrow. THAT I can do.. I’m not as talented as many are, and I’d probably leave out, or at least have trouble finding ways to add, some of the feelings I've described, but, I just seem to work better with lines..
That’s what makes no sense to me.
If I’m going to be so atrocious with words, could I at least stop getting the urges to write? Could I at least be satisfied with what I can do with words? But no, I find myself in this crevice, doomed forever (or at least for a while) to be plagued by these urges, and to continue to fail myself when it comes to producing something I’m satisfied with.
That tangent over with, I believe at least my writing bug for the moment has passed, and I think I can get on for a while before another one threatens to attack. Kudos to you if you had enough time to read the entire thing. Yes, kudos to you..
It has nothing specifically to do with my life
It is just a rant
If you do infact take the time to read it, please, don't misinterpret it
The section of the story I placed in here, titled 'Glade of Sorrow', does not reflect anything I'm feeling at this moment, frankly, when I'm in an okay to awesome mood, I don't write/draw happy things
Enjoy~
I feel like writing quite often. It’s almost a daily occurrence. Just a sudden urge to put to paper all the things I know about the world. I wish to cultivate random garble into something extraordinary, something that will leave the reader stunned and thoughtful. I sit and think and understand every thought in my head, but when it comes to getting it down on this paper.. I can’t do it.
I lose everything I just thought of. Every feeling in my body vanishes.
I know the general subject of which I wish to write, I know what inspires me to write, but the words don’t flow as easily as my thoughts.
Not only that, whenever I find myself reading over my work I’m always disgusted. Nothing I say, nothing I write is as melodic as anything I read or see. I can’t find the same relaxing motion of words as they can, my favorite writers. Obviously, I’m not cut out for a job anywhere in this field, good thing it’s not my dream.
Why do lines work so much better for me than words? How can I express everything through pictures, and not find anything to actually describe that feeling? If I was to set a redundant scene, let’s say a clearing towards the middle of a forest...
________________________________________________________
...One in which the trees are closely knitted together, save but a few. These few you’ve carved your path through, this path having led you to this enchanting field. Everything that could’ve been alive in this clearing seems to have vanished, the quiet seems to burn your very being. This clearing’s existence is accented with a simple stump exactly in the
middle of it all. How perfectly unusual it seems. You place your hand on the tree next to you as you let out a small gasp of wonder.
How quickly you step back as you hear a rustling in the shadows behind the trees before you. Your hand still upon the tree, you carefully peek forward, curiosity compelling you to disregard the possibility of danger. It... no... she appears out of the dark mass. She comes forward, completely oblivious of you, or perhaps it is just that she has no interest. The soft light darkens every crease on her body, as well as emphasizes every curve. Silver hair glitters, just as it was made to. Deep, dark green eyes give off a feel of sorrow
and loneliness as they survey the scene around them. Never have you seen such a saddened soul.
You can’t help but ache for her, her dread as each day approaches, her reluctance to go on. How much you want to cry for her, how much you want to see her smile. You bite your lip and tighten your grip on the tree. Your surge of emotion is leaving you off guard, and you know that could be a problem. Your sense of reality kicks in, this woman, whoever she is, is truly none of your business. You at the moment are at fault for spying
on such a wretched creature. Despite your want, your absolute need to help this pitiful thing, would she want the help of someone she doesn’t know? Someone who, out of nowhere, decides it’s their job to solve all of her problems? You yourself would never accept such help, you know this.
In the time it’s taken you to sort through all these feelings, she’s taken her seat upon that perfect stump you had seen earlier. Her potential beauty renders you helpless. As you watch, you know she’s nothing special, that’s not what gets you, it’s what she could be. What she would be if she wasn’t so drowned in anguish.
As she looks to the sky you notice how routine her movements are. This clearing is obviously her spot. This is where she comes to escape it all... much too often. Whatever she’s thinking about, it leaves her face bland, so monotone. She shields herself from her own thought process, refusing to think of anything that causes her pain, which is, as far as you can tell, everything in her life, with the exception of this one little clearing.
Her face is completely wiped clean of any trace of what you saw when she first appeared. Almost like stone, or perhaps more like glass.. solid, yet so fragile. Despite her efforts, her wall is flawed, the glass shatters, and she crumples into a sobbing mass. Her cries of agony echo through the silent glade. Your reason dissolves, and as you slump to the grass
floor, you let out a sob more miserable than her own.
Her mewlings end with a slight yelp as she surveys the wood around her. She knows you’re there, no use hiding now. Her depressing demeanor is left behind for the moment as she fears what she cannot see.. you. You’re overwhelmed with dismay at causing this creature more grief. You decide that, despite your better judgment, rather than leave the poor thing scared and alone, you’ll muster up the courage and let yourself be known. With a deep breath you haul yourself up to a standing position. You pause... Ready to face the consequences, you leave your only refuge and finally expose yourself to her.
_________________________________________________________
Now tell me, did this leave you wondering what would happen next? Did you want to know how she would react to your presence? Did you feel her pain? I don’t seem to feel any of that reading over my own material. Maybe that’s because I already felt it as I wrote it. Maybe it’s because I’m critical of myself, or maybe, maybe I’m right, and I’m just not cut out for writing.
Don’t tell me it was good, or better than you could do. Frankly, I could write a five word sentence, bitch about it as much as I am now, and you’d probably say the same thing. Instead, what I’m interested in is, did it flow? Was it as easy to read as some of your favorite books? Can you see yourself taking time out of your day to read something similar? I don’t care if you’d spend your time reading something because I wrote it, that’s not worth a thing. You’ve got to read something because you enjoy it, because somehow the author was able to make a point with you, was able to get something across. I feel that I am unable to do as such. I’m not as much cut out for writing.
With lines however.. Now, I wouldn’t be able to go through the entire scenario, unless of course I made a story board of pictures. But if I was to make a picture of the final scene described, her sitting on the stump, tears streaming down her face as she stares at you in fear, awe, god knows what, and you, you trying to make yourself seem harmless, your face reflecting her sorrow. THAT I can do.. I’m not as talented as many are, and I’d probably leave out, or at least have trouble finding ways to add, some of the feelings I've described, but, I just seem to work better with lines..
That’s what makes no sense to me.
If I’m going to be so atrocious with words, could I at least stop getting the urges to write? Could I at least be satisfied with what I can do with words? But no, I find myself in this crevice, doomed forever (or at least for a while) to be plagued by these urges, and to continue to fail myself when it comes to producing something I’m satisfied with.
That tangent over with, I believe at least my writing bug for the moment has passed, and I think I can get on for a while before another one threatens to attack. Kudos to you if you had enough time to read the entire thing. Yes, kudos to you..