Monday, April 27, 2009

autobiographical peice i suppose

She had over fifty journals but only a handful were full. The thoughts she managed to scribble down never compared to the brief becautiful ideas that consumed her mind daily. The pen would scratch the surface of the paper but anxiety would quickly consume here. What would the others say if they were to read her thoughts? Would her insights provoke laughter? Then there was always the belief that her work would never amount to that of someone else. Quickly, she would toss the journal away in a fit of frustration and her fingers would not wrap themselves around a pen for several months. And so the cycle would continute.

Excuses were always made when motivation would finally strike her. They would range from not having the proper notebook to scrawl her thoughts, to not having the right space to unleash her fantasies. Embarassment always flooded into her mind for writing whatever she did. And the pages would be torn out and tossing into the waste basket. She knew all writers went through this, in fact, everyone had to. In any point of any one person's life they had to feel self conscious. They had to feel unmotivated, they had to feel less than everyone else. But there was a difference between her and them, she always felt they overcame it and created something beautiful. While she dwelled in silence staring at an empty page, wishing something would come of her efforts.

She had heard all the advice before. But the words, "Write about what you know," Never brought her comfort because who would want to hear about an average girls trek through suburbia. "Don't force yourself to write," They would say, but what were you to do when writers block had lasted her over two years?

Writing was all she had known. It was her only claim to fame. Her friends had many assorted talents, something they could pride themselves in and express at any given moment. There was difficulty, however, with those whose talents rested solely on a pen. Some days words don't come. Somedays there just isnt anything interesting to say. Everyone has to have something they are good at and everyone she met did. Whether they played an instrament, a sport or were an artist. She clung to writing because it was the only thing she even came close to claiming as a talent.

With this talent negative critism always showed it's ugly head. Whether from others or even just herself. She feared to take pride in anything she did because others were always quick to judge. And once more, she would let embarassment wash over her the way it always did. Something always arose, quick to knock her on her ass. But that is the way life works. The only difference is there are people who can stand up after being knocked down or those who let the defeat of falling get the best of them.

Through most, if not all, of her life laziness and the lack of motivation always clung to her. In a way, it was like a drug. She felt as though she were like a junkie trying to get clean. Brief periods of motivation would rise and in these times poems were created. Also, in these times, drastic life changing ideas would strout and she would act on them. In these times, the structure for a great successful life would being to be built. Until suddenly, those projects she no longer cared and they would slowly deteriorate and crash to the ground around her. Slacking off was her drug, it used to feel good to say, "Fuck it," to priorities but no even if she did either no sense of accomplishment ever struck her because she was always so many paces from where she should have been.

The past chased her and it brought plenty of fresh regret. And even though she had heard a thousand times from others, "You can't change the past, only the future," they brought her no comfort. Because she was being shouted to by others, miles ahead of her in the race.

1 comment:

the Music of the Night said...

Bravo!
deary! that was a great bit of writing!! I can relate to some degree.. i haven't written in ages!!
But that was good!!!

luv you!