you have other more important things to do right now, like finish the last 17 A4 pages of the etext book you have to read for english literature, or revise for your psychology mock, or update your sketchbook (turned dormant after an outburst of spraypaint inspiration filling up 3 pages of it) ... but you are held captive by your own little heart, refusing to semantically process any studying or be moved to create anything to do with visual art.
so you sit here, by the light of a lamp, kept company by a serif font you have grown accustomed to writing with (you used to always use sans-serif fonts because they felt easier to stare at) on this Create Post page on blogger.
you wrote two emails today, both just post-it notes - which is what you call emails that are more like postcards rather than real, envelope-sealed letters - and reluctuantly sent. it's odd, this night, as everything seems backwards and upside-down. on a normal night you reluctantly send, kicking yourself for not being able to write any more. but tonight you reluctantly send, kicking yourself for not writing more. difference of which, of course, is that tonight you were able to but didn't.
and then you go on looking blankly at several webpages you have open; feeling incredulously tiny, feeling like you need to talk and make yourself heard, and alas no one to talk to (or a voice too little to be heard). you go back to both emails you had sent, and for one second decide to write a second one, on both. the next second, you discard the drafts.
you know this, you dread this. this is the silence that your mind mutates to haunt you. the one that says, shhh, don't scare them away with all your words and your heart. don't weigh them down more than the rest of the world already has. listen to yourself, you are just like you were last year, and the year before and the year before and the year before. why don't you learn?
it's the one that comes when all else is fast and loud, the kind of fast and loud you back away from because you never liked it. you have had your better days in that retreat, but in this one of haunting you remain a denizen. because they are both parts of your own little world, and sometimes it's just too painful to be alone in the good part. especially at this time of year.
so you sit here, by the light of a lamp, kept company by a serif font you have grown accustomed to writing with (you used to always use sans-serif fonts because they felt easier to stare at) on this Create Post page on blogger.
you wrote two emails today, both just post-it notes - which is what you call emails that are more like postcards rather than real, envelope-sealed letters - and reluctuantly sent. it's odd, this night, as everything seems backwards and upside-down. on a normal night you reluctantly send, kicking yourself for not being able to write any more. but tonight you reluctantly send, kicking yourself for not writing more. difference of which, of course, is that tonight you were able to but didn't.
and then you go on looking blankly at several webpages you have open; feeling incredulously tiny, feeling like you need to talk and make yourself heard, and alas no one to talk to (or a voice too little to be heard). you go back to both emails you had sent, and for one second decide to write a second one, on both. the next second, you discard the drafts.
you know this, you dread this. this is the silence that your mind mutates to haunt you. the one that says, shhh, don't scare them away with all your words and your heart. don't weigh them down more than the rest of the world already has. listen to yourself, you are just like you were last year, and the year before and the year before and the year before. why don't you learn?
it's the one that comes when all else is fast and loud, the kind of fast and loud you back away from because you never liked it. you have had your better days in that retreat, but in this one of haunting you remain a denizen. because they are both parts of your own little world, and sometimes it's just too painful to be alone in the good part. especially at this time of year.
1 comment:
Why don't you trust people to carry your feelings or to at least share them?
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