Because we wanted to know
I don't read books. For pleasure that is, I don't read books. The last book I read was over the Christmas holidays, Brooklyn. I was completely absorbed. I took it in the car to read, even though I get carsick when I do that. I wanted to shut out everyone and everything. I wanted to consume it and it to consume me. Instead of my feast, I had to make do with hors d'oeurves.
I don't write; I don't write for pleasure. And of all, I find writing most pleasurable. I like being able to edit my thoughts, right then and there, no one ever knowing the stupid thing I said the first time (and stupid comments are what they are most likely to receive when they speak to me). I like trying - no, testing different words. I like to weigh their impact. And when I write, all I want to think about are words and sentences and cadence and metaphors and allusions (or is it illusions - you see, I'm still learning). I want to fall into my thoughts, as if the words and letters are like leaves from a fallen tree. And I've raked them up in a big pile. I'll fall backwards into them, like they do in TV movies. And throw them in the air. But the thought-leaves and the word-leaves keep falling from my mind-tree. And I have to rake them up again. This is what I want to do with my words.
I watch TV. Reality shite like Relocation, Relocation. I'm not giving away the ending if I tell you they get the house, right? You can put all the obstacles you like, edit how you wish, but in the end, you know how it is. It's the same for the games that fill my time. Someone will win, someone will lose - maybe even me. It will end. Maybe in an hour, like a TV show, maybe in a couple of hours. And even if I get emotional about those things, soon enough, I won't remember those people, that house, that silly match. I won't become absorbed by it; it will not become absorbed in me.
Basically, I fill my time with crap, rather than the things that matter to me. Because reading and writing (learning and growing and changing and gaining and evolving and knowing) matter, I want them to know they matter, that they are real. And I can't. Because my real life won't let me make them real. Because my real life and my real job makes what really matters to me just a fantasy. I feel like if I try to let what I find to be real in to stand next to my real life, a Harry Hill style fight breaks out. I have consistently been (whether good or bad, that is to be debated another time) an all-or-nothing kind of person. My real life gets it all, what I find real gets nothing.
And I write this not only because you wanted to know. I write this because I wondered why myself.
I don't write; I don't write for pleasure. And of all, I find writing most pleasurable. I like being able to edit my thoughts, right then and there, no one ever knowing the stupid thing I said the first time (and stupid comments are what they are most likely to receive when they speak to me). I like trying - no, testing different words. I like to weigh their impact. And when I write, all I want to think about are words and sentences and cadence and metaphors and allusions (or is it illusions - you see, I'm still learning). I want to fall into my thoughts, as if the words and letters are like leaves from a fallen tree. And I've raked them up in a big pile. I'll fall backwards into them, like they do in TV movies. And throw them in the air. But the thought-leaves and the word-leaves keep falling from my mind-tree. And I have to rake them up again. This is what I want to do with my words.
I watch TV. Reality shite like Relocation, Relocation. I'm not giving away the ending if I tell you they get the house, right? You can put all the obstacles you like, edit how you wish, but in the end, you know how it is. It's the same for the games that fill my time. Someone will win, someone will lose - maybe even me. It will end. Maybe in an hour, like a TV show, maybe in a couple of hours. And even if I get emotional about those things, soon enough, I won't remember those people, that house, that silly match. I won't become absorbed by it; it will not become absorbed in me.
Basically, I fill my time with crap, rather than the things that matter to me. Because reading and writing (learning and growing and changing and gaining and evolving and knowing) matter, I want them to know they matter, that they are real. And I can't. Because my real life won't let me make them real. Because my real life and my real job makes what really matters to me just a fantasy. I feel like if I try to let what I find to be real in to stand next to my real life, a Harry Hill style fight breaks out. I have consistently been (whether good or bad, that is to be debated another time) an all-or-nothing kind of person. My real life gets it all, what I find real gets nothing.
And I write this not only because you wanted to know. I write this because I wondered why myself.
posted by Autumn at 21.1.10
2 Comments:
You used to love writing stories in high school. Didn't know you'd started writing in your blog. I've always wanted to write, but keep forgetting to keep the book in handy places to continue journaling. I'll have to look for the book and start journaling again. I attempted writing a 100,000 word "book", thinking I could write my bio, but found out they wanted a novel so I stopped. The constraints was to write something in one month and submit to this specific website. The group would then send you a certificate if you qualified with the word count. Then the next month they would show you how to edit and review your book. Was intended to help those who'd always wanted to write to begin the process. I might try this year with some other concept. The actual writing has to occur in the month they designate with you logging on to their website to officially enter their "contest." If you're interested, I'll find out the website. Love--
I love your chat. Miss our baws chat together. x
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