Writing For Me
I don't feel like writing. Why is that? Deep down, I need to write. Every now and then, I feel this metaphysical pressure — something like the pressure in a bladder, something like the pressure you feel underwater when you need to go up for air, something like a headache that's slowly starting to nag, something like the pressure in your stomach just before a good burp. It's not a charming muse's call. The literary angels don't sound their trumpets. It's this gross pressure that builds until your system can't deal with it anymore. BELCH, and you feel better.
Though it's not just feeling better like the pressure is gone. It's feeling better like feeling more human. It's like finally feeling your blood flow after a raw absence of feeling. It's like walking outside and smelling autumn air after cooping yourself up inside for so long. It's like there was this hateful urge that you had to obey, but, after you've indulged the urge, it transforms into a purity, a righteous breathing. After you've clung to the painful retching, it turns into breath, light, life.
That's writing — for me anyway.
Every time, I hate the retching, the belching, the puking, the pissing. It's like running: I'm out of practice, so every time is miserable until I've stuck with it for two or three miles. (Now, I never run because it's so freaking miserable, but that's how runners describe the transition.) The same way that I need to run – perhaps even more so – I need to write. That's why I keep dragging myself back to this vague, rambling cyberspace corner.
I fear — once and always. I'm lazy. I'm stupid. This is not a pity party; I'm just acknowledging, with brasher words, some of my setbacks. I don't know what laziness, proper, is. I'm not even going to check the dictionary. I just know that, though I'm a monstrously hard worker, I don't choose hard work consistently enough. If you plop a task in my lap, I can conquer it like Mulan conquered the Huns. Ah, but, if the freedom is left to me to choose and seek a task, I falter like a flimsy. It's a big, mixed-up mess of laziness, fear, some dashes of stupidity, and other random facets. Meh.
Time to write two poems.
Though it's not just feeling better like the pressure is gone. It's feeling better like feeling more human. It's like finally feeling your blood flow after a raw absence of feeling. It's like walking outside and smelling autumn air after cooping yourself up inside for so long. It's like there was this hateful urge that you had to obey, but, after you've indulged the urge, it transforms into a purity, a righteous breathing. After you've clung to the painful retching, it turns into breath, light, life.
That's writing — for me anyway.
Every time, I hate the retching, the belching, the puking, the pissing. It's like running: I'm out of practice, so every time is miserable until I've stuck with it for two or three miles. (Now, I never run because it's so freaking miserable, but that's how runners describe the transition.) The same way that I need to run – perhaps even more so – I need to write. That's why I keep dragging myself back to this vague, rambling cyberspace corner.
I fear — once and always. I'm lazy. I'm stupid. This is not a pity party; I'm just acknowledging, with brasher words, some of my setbacks. I don't know what laziness, proper, is. I'm not even going to check the dictionary. I just know that, though I'm a monstrously hard worker, I don't choose hard work consistently enough. If you plop a task in my lap, I can conquer it like Mulan conquered the Huns. Ah, but, if the freedom is left to me to choose and seek a task, I falter like a flimsy. It's a big, mixed-up mess of laziness, fear, some dashes of stupidity, and other random facets. Meh.
Time to write two poems.
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