Monday May 08, 2006

0
I can't just sit down and write anymore. I haven't been able to for years. When I try, nothing comes out like it does in my head. I can never portray anything as beautifully or cinematically as I see if in my brain. I've also noticed that I'm very passive when I write. I use a lot of "kind of"s, "pretty sure"s, "just about"s. Am I that wishy-washy and non-confrontational in real life? Pathetic. No wonder I can't write anything interesting or passionate anymore. When I was younger, be it 7, 14, 17, I could write things that were surreal and pretty. Things the way I see them. Without whatever filter has been placed on me with age and loss of self-confidence. I'll never get that kind of honesty again.
I started a story months ago that I think about all the time, but have no way to continue. I wish I could draw, I would draw it and maybe I could present it how I'd like to.

SPOILERS! (Click to view)
In his dreams she is surrounded by color, blues and greens and yellows and reds emanate gloriously, prism like, from her pores. He can feel her smile, her wide, toothy smile, pressed up against the trembling enamel of his teeth. He softly tugs at her dusty, fragile dress, drawing himself even closer to her. Her barely pubescent hip bones graze his, his lower half presses against hers. Their tongues adventure fearlessly into each others' cavernous, hungry mouths. Then the smell: the sour, penetrating smell of rotting flesh. He always notices the smell before he finds her eyes with his and sees them terrified. Pleading. All color and warm light draining rapidly from her greying, sinking skin. He stumbles backwards; she sways as she weakly grasps forward for him, finally succumbing to gravity and collapsing into a stinking, brittle pile on the ground.
As always after one of these dreams, he jolts up instantly as the sound of her bones hitting the floor still resonates in his ears. Her stench stays on him as he gasps for breath, coated in sweat, sheets soaked thin as a top layer of skin. He chokes back tears, remembering that even nightmares are bitter sweet; it is another night that she was in him, another dream where she was still alive.



Hail to whatever you've found in the sunlight that surrounds you. Pretend all the good things are for you, pretend all the good things are for me, too.

VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
attn_ho:
awww, thats just your left brain a fussin and a fuedin and a fightin with your rigjht. your left brain is looking over the shoulder of the right asking pointless questions, not letting the right brain just get to work!

its no different to draw'n artists. still gotta worry that the angle of perspective is gonna be off, that the lines need to be different, anything to second guess the impulse to begin and work. so, say to your left brain, RESEARCH. go hammer out details or arcana or costume design, whatever. while you do that, the right is furtively working undercover.

also, dont be afraid to suck. liike several times.

i dont miss youths passion, i miss its singleness of purpose, when everything was a fucking around, so you could never fail at that. luck. kiss
toothpickmoe:
Yeah, that was some seriously crappy writing. whatever

You have a voice. We all do. Just write.

More Blogs