Thoughts on my writing.

May 19th, 2008 4:49:53 am - Subscribe
Mood: placid.
Song:: I'll Keep Your Memory Vague - Finger Eleven

7.56pm
I make resolutions a lot. Is that normal? Sometimes I manage to fulfill them, but more often than not I end up where I started.
Keeping my room clean, for instance. Not going as well as I had hoped.
I have an inkling that maintenance just isn't my strength. Creativity is, but without the wherewithal to keep things going it never amounts to much. If it did, I would be surrounded by successful projects of my own design and undertaking, polished and completed.

8.05pm
I'm not. I'm surrounded by clutter and intentions. Oh, God. I'm an idea man.

8.14pm
I have a strange aversion to turning on electric lights indoors when there is still natural light to be had. I do it if I have to, but generally prefer to ruin my eyesight trying to read in half-light coming through a window. It's usually not a conscious decision. Maybe it would discourage the sun from shining. Or, perhaps, cause me not to notice the fading of the evening light.

10.06pm
When I write for myself, I write beautiful uninhibited things. When I write for public posting, everything is inane; contrived; controlled; devoid of feeling and expression.
When I write for myself and display the result publicly, all hell seems to break loose. People are often paying much closer attention than I realize - there is more perception than I bank on and explanations are due.
I forget that in my hands; in my thoughts - in my writing - words are powerful and dangerous. They are my weapon and one that I am well accustomed to using for ends both right and wrong.
I forget that the power of the written word is not only effective on their writer. However intoxicated I can become in the expression of these things, I should exercise more thought and judgment.
I write beautiful things - things that I am proud of - and place each one in prominence, to be found with only the slightest desire, but these are not what catch the attention of those whose contemplation I seek. Instead, the storms - the dark, unhappy uprisings of emotion - and the fires are what I am judged by and questioned of.
I resent it. Whole worlds I could create you out of language, full of the lovely and profound and intricate patterns that are at my disposal, but I doubt you would care to take a look deep enough to fall in. I could open flood-gates of feelings and render them as real as the sensations of your skin if you'd only consider the works I put forward to you.
You refuse to be drawn in. Words, my greatest weapon, are useless onward from the point where your eyes transfer them from the page to your mind.
Without the reader they are impotent, but are equally insignificant once within.
I repeatedly get the sense that the pen, however great, is not mightier than the sword and that I am fighting a losing battle with outdated artillery.

10.39pm
That is how I need to write more often on here. That's the variety of writing that feels the best.
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