Do you ever feel like you have to define words, concepts things for yourself with such magnitude you become lost in the process and end up writing poetry?
That’s what I have found I have been stuck in for the greater part of my life.
All this unwritten stuff, the experiences of my life, stuck in the quicksand of me and now, it forces its way out.
This propulsion towards distilling the mud of all that I have come to know, to churn the butter, filter to an elixir, wipe the table of knowing, clean for another loaf to knead.
This bread may or may not be enough to feed me, but secretly in the depths of murky cavities, in the pits of my ego, I want others to eat from it.
I find myself smirking at others when I read they want to romanticise the reasons they write as being ‘for themselves’. I don’t believe that, I can’t believe that, perhaps because as much as I’d like to join them in their frivolous narcissism, I have been acquainted with the gnaw of my ego for too long.
We write to be heralded as writers, to be heard, to make acquaintance with other egos and perhaps then, the real test begins. Are we willing to pacify our ego and quell it towards the quiet of humility or does it become supercharged to inflated proportions? I believe the death of a writer is in the later, and the growth comes in the former. You may write a blockbuster, but you’ll probably write mediocre shit after that if you let it get to your head.
It seems that I have automatically steered myself to a process of distilling my existence through words. Filtering out all the useless, making way for definitions, anecdotes, musings, aphorisms and litanies of comprehension to write my own dictionary of words and meanings.
I find myself zeroing in on a word only then to magnify it, draw brainstormed stalactites falling off the word, resembling mental bominockers, and have them float in the orbit of my mind until they attract and associate other words, meanings, experiences and so on.
When those bominockers are complete, they break out of orbit, spill on to paper or speech and settle into the pages of me. A weight, ironically taken out of a weightless orbit, settled into belly and regurgitated when needed.
How on earth can a thought, an emotion, a word heard make us feel so heavy if it is not for the allegories we create in our mind of what they mean. Why does our heart sink when we hurt and juxtaposingly, when we love? What is it about hearing those words or feeling those emotions that conjures sinking if not this metaphorical association?
Perhaps some writers do this more than others, or can illicit it in others more than some writers and why we take to them more than others.
What I do know, is I can smell an unimaginative one who has taken no time with themselves a mile away. Who’s in love with the idea of writing but doesn’t read, doesn’t write several times a day and can’t weave in palatable ideas into their writing.
Perhaps find something else to do, not that it bothers me you keep writing meaningless shit, perhaps all of this is in fact a note to myself and my soul is tired of my minds squabble and ego’s stench.