re verse aga in st g rain
faces. blanks. slices of bread. you’re right & I’m contradiction. each color is complete in my friendships + I’m staring lonely = a sharply burning, unfulfilled heart of pointlessness
smiles; absolutely moving but depressing - physical realness = imagination; I am imagination
you’ll get me only if you get me and no one’s gotten me yet,
I’ve only gotten two chances at connecting, and those were because people felt bad for my insanity
they didn’t care to know me.
So it’s clearer than a Maine starry night, between the trees of etern. So I’m enigma, yet.
I don’t want to be—but you fear ruining the mystery. How fucked.
Since childhood I’ve spent silence like money, and it’s invested in the right place, but it’s placed me in manor walls of delusion.
conclusion: death needs to come quicker
You know all those times an established writer is asked, “How do you become a writer?”
It’s such a loaded, hopeful inquiry. But we writers usually pine over the answers of the “greats,” salivating over the idea of being something [more]. And those who always wanted but don’t know where to start, they listen attentively for the answer, just in case it will change everything they ever thought about the craft.
And what’s that answer that comes out of these brilliant mouths? The most unrewarding advice (or so it seems).
That’s right. “Keep writing.”
To the early entrants of the craft, and to some who take violent stabs at it from time to time, it’s a painful thing to hear. It means very little.
"Obviously I keep writing. But I want to be a ‘writer,’" they say. I used to wonder why that advice was so meaningful, until recently.
Once out of college, once I met the repetitive flack of human society head on, I found myself holding onto my habit of writing around people. Watching, waiting, smoking, drinking, thinking, dreaming, and jotting it all down with as much detail as possible, regardless of its importance. It didn’t matter how horrible the words came out. It didn’t matter because I didn’t care as much as I did when I started out, thinking at that point, it took only mystical moments of inspiration from a muse to create a fleeting story or poem every time I sat down to put words together. It just became something I did naturally. As habitual as smoking or chewing your fingernails.I didn’t think all that much when I did it, I just fidgeted in response to having nothing better to do.
And after doing this a while, keeping up with the habit, as I did in college, but not as intently, I forgot I was even writing. I forgot that day after day, I filled more and more pages. I forgot until there were good words and good moments that I couldn’t keep myself away from.
Then I realized: this is what those brilliant fuckers meant. You keep writing, until it’s not even a question as to whether you want to writer or not. You write until it’s just something you do, naturally. And in that nature, you find beauty from time to time. And you can finally relax, because you know, you’ll always keep writing, because it’s as natural as breathing now.