An obituary to writing at 24…
Nothing stirred me as magical words that define the process of an entire day or explain in a lilt the larger than life concepts in a nutshell. Imagine that a few vowels and words strung together hinge the entire history of human evolution to the species we are today. I read voraciously. Still do, strange books that are flung into a little dark corner on libraries and reading rooms have a special place in my heart. Also far flung stories that revolve orbit around the nonsensical, prose catches me.
I wrote some. And some more! I wrote when it suited me. When something ached in me to scream in letters and phrases. I did write then. I made an education of it and then a profession of it. I wrote spuriously and with real connect. I wrote for an audience that moved. I replicated theories and introspections with calm affability. Only to find my writer languishing somewhere. The reverse osmosis had already begin. Rot and decay incessant. Word after word repetitive,
hardly stimulating. For all I could care I was just making up excuses for a laze filled day of which I had lots. Oh I don’t have a pen to write or one which makes the ink spill faster with words n ideas. Or I only write slant as a dictum and this piece of stationary is coarse and rough to my sensitive words. It can’t hold fray, the words would only come tossed as a salad and injure me. Or with an elsewhere mind and slept ideas, wherefore would the foreward of a novel go.
Streamrolled and compressed. Just for little jaunty traipse with worded veneer and then fall flat on its face with a complacent frown. It was all that and more. So I decided to write it off. Like many things we do day in and day out. I decided to walk it home. To fling the carcass to the winds.
So at 24 I just went out and wrote an obituary to my writing. Just like that. So that all my writing be thus that I have risen from the dead. Part of my resurrection.
I wrote some. And some more! I wrote when it suited me. When something ached in me to scream in letters and phrases. I did write then. I made an education of it and then a profession of it. I wrote spuriously and with real connect. I wrote for an audience that moved. I replicated theories and introspections with calm affability. Only to find my writer languishing somewhere. The reverse osmosis had already begin. Rot and decay incessant. Word after word repetitive,
hardly stimulating. For all I could care I was just making up excuses for a laze filled day of which I had lots. Oh I don’t have a pen to write or one which makes the ink spill faster with words n ideas. Or I only write slant as a dictum and this piece of stationary is coarse and rough to my sensitive words. It can’t hold fray, the words would only come tossed as a salad and injure me. Or with an elsewhere mind and slept ideas, wherefore would the foreward of a novel go.
Streamrolled and compressed. Just for little jaunty traipse with worded veneer and then fall flat on its face with a complacent frown. It was all that and more. So I decided to write it off. Like many things we do day in and day out. I decided to walk it home. To fling the carcass to the winds.
So at 24 I just went out and wrote an obituary to my writing. Just like that. So that all my writing be thus that I have risen from the dead. Part of my resurrection.
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