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SubscriptionsSites I Read
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| We are stilted in the fabric of
uncurled breath – mute, signalling in the self-conscious, ticking silence for a
cue. Rationing affection by allocating slots of planned significance
interspersed with bouts of reckless, unguarded, irrepressible spontaneity.
Where relics of instinct are elongated against the realm of disguised dormancy.
The slightest tinge of encouragement unleashes the barrage. Even sidelined,
conditioned, forcefully underwhelmed – I call, I wane, I linger: to experience
the familiar scratch within the ribcage, warming from the inside out, a
gathering storm of charged sparks. The whirling fuse of quickly overflowing
with no release but to truncate the shortest distance between us. | | |
| I fail to see the daylight in most days because I am usually filled with the false lights of a basement. I know there is a sun and clouds and blues and greens outside, but I am not part of them as long as I remain here. Chained, I await the moment I can walk out and join the rest of nature and fill my lungs with the nauseous fumes of the city. They are nauseous but exciting.
Today is a quiet day and I prefer these calm times. Time ticks by slowly, but I am left to think and revel in what I want to do instead of being forced to do whatever they ask of me. I rather like writing instead, though I never write enough.
The change in humanity throughout time fascinates me. What we take for granted as common feelings and attitudes are far from what the norm was hundreds of years ago. People do not think in the same ways as they did back then. Time creates experience and yet so many generations die. Is this experience somehow passed on? Or is it as black and white and bland as what science tells us? It is merely the change in collectivity. The change in culture. Pop culture. New science. I still find it hard to accept the old commercials on TV or on the radio as being half as convincing as they are today. Convincing or manipulating? Has the mind truly changed that much?
I think I should be a librarian. Someone who would walk down rows of books and only find comfort in their existence versus fear of their contents. No book is a danger. It is only the interpretation that causes its pages to be feared. Perceptions are blessings and curses. The curse comes from fear passed down through generations. | | |
| I've come to the realization that many people who write, or long to write, usually come up against the typical notion of not knowing what to write because they think everything worth writing has already been written. What is left to write? There is plenty to write. When reading a passage in a book strikes a chord within and one is left with a joyous sense of communal relativity with the writer one is also left with a dread of thinking, 'Fuck, now I can't say it because it's already been said.' Just because one already wrote down their thoughts does not mean it cannot and will not be said again, because it most likely will. It is all a matter of time and perspective. Though some emotions and thoughts are universal, what set them apart is the time frame in which these things were recorded. Everything changes except these universal feelings, therefore each time they are written they become 'new.' So not everything has been written, but rather, a fraction of it has within one's lifetime. It is merely a matter of applying those 'already known' thoughts into their brand new setting. | | |
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