I've often, in my more delusional moments, fancied myself a writer. Maybe not to the degree to which i aspire, but i no doubt understand basic sentance structure, diction, verbiage and all that other fascinating stuff that four years of an english major (and a basic primary foundation) aims to teach... When i was released from the sanctimonious walls of higher education, the tools to create my future were metriculously hidden in the magical power of words.
now, if only i could properly find my voice, that life i am aimlessly searching for may finally unfold before me. where to begin the quest for my own holy grail is perhaps the hardest question of all, and one that words are proving to fail me in answering.
i hope you'll read, i hope you'll love, i hope i hope i hope...
Currently listening to: Muddy Waters
Currently reading: emails
Currently watching: my phone ring
Currently feeling: artistic
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
hmmm...
so i keep trying to add a post and it won't work. i feel slightly devestated (which is kind of an oxymoron considering the act of devestation is an exagerrated feeling and therefore not slightly anything)...
Thursday, May 3, 2007
on a wednesday morning
I never understood why certain people claimed that curse words make you sound uneducated, as if the alternatives were so much more sophisticated. Yesterday morning I felt like shit and I don't think this little detail would benefit my tale in anyway were I to choose to describe said morning feeling as crap or poop. I felt like shit. I think that sums things up quite nicely.
Getting on the subway at ten to nine it was already clear that I would be late to the office. It hardly mattered. All I had the energy to concentrate on was the pounding headache which under other far more entertaining circumstnces could have been justified as a hangover. In my case, I had spent Tuesday evening in bed with my roommate, the dog, and a new Veronica Mars (yet not in the kinky sense). At around 4am my roommate showed up in my room, tears streaming down her face, shaking like a damn chiuhaha (in this case I just really wanted to add the curse word, sue me). Sick, sick, sick she was and back to sleep I never really managed to get after finding her some meds and a cold compress for her aching head.
So now here I was with an aching head of my own, on my way to yet another long day behind this computer screen which I knew from experience would only make the pain far more severe. Across from me on the train, a cute boy in sunglasses sat tapping his pen to the beat of imaginary music, pausing occasionally to scribble down words in his nearly filled notebook.
I felt jealous. I felt anger. Why don't I write anymore? Why don't I create? Once I had talent, I am quite sure of it but somewhere along the way my creative soul was swiftly opressed as the corporate career girl declared a dictatorship.
Perhaps I stared at him too blatantly, desperately longing for my own notebook and the words to fill it with. When I got up at my midtown stop I felt a tap on my side. Looking over the boy tore out the page he was working on and handed it to me. Demurely smiling, I exited the train and joined the swelling crowd on our ascent from below ground.
The words read:
"Taken from a restless sleep to a discourse on routines, As the venom is spread the angst loses its charm and leaves my self and others cold, listless. Sour tastes left over from nights before, This morning she's late but I'll still wait cuz she took awhile to get her look straight.
Accursed street level but its cold underground. I cant ever settle In love with the sounds. The sound of her voice, I can see in her eyes Reflection shown like a ghost whose waiting to die. The boots on her legs look happy and snug. The skirt on her thighs her hips it does hug. I like you hair that way, you should do it more often."
If I knew how, I may have cried. Instead, I was inspired to write.
Getting on the subway at ten to nine it was already clear that I would be late to the office. It hardly mattered. All I had the energy to concentrate on was the pounding headache which under other far more entertaining circumstnces could have been justified as a hangover. In my case, I had spent Tuesday evening in bed with my roommate, the dog, and a new Veronica Mars (yet not in the kinky sense). At around 4am my roommate showed up in my room, tears streaming down her face, shaking like a damn chiuhaha (in this case I just really wanted to add the curse word, sue me). Sick, sick, sick she was and back to sleep I never really managed to get after finding her some meds and a cold compress for her aching head.
So now here I was with an aching head of my own, on my way to yet another long day behind this computer screen which I knew from experience would only make the pain far more severe. Across from me on the train, a cute boy in sunglasses sat tapping his pen to the beat of imaginary music, pausing occasionally to scribble down words in his nearly filled notebook.
I felt jealous. I felt anger. Why don't I write anymore? Why don't I create? Once I had talent, I am quite sure of it but somewhere along the way my creative soul was swiftly opressed as the corporate career girl declared a dictatorship.
Perhaps I stared at him too blatantly, desperately longing for my own notebook and the words to fill it with. When I got up at my midtown stop I felt a tap on my side. Looking over the boy tore out the page he was working on and handed it to me. Demurely smiling, I exited the train and joined the swelling crowd on our ascent from below ground.
The words read:
"Taken from a restless sleep to a discourse on routines, As the venom is spread the angst loses its charm and leaves my self and others cold, listless. Sour tastes left over from nights before, This morning she's late but I'll still wait cuz she took awhile to get her look straight.
Accursed street level but its cold underground. I cant ever settle In love with the sounds. The sound of her voice, I can see in her eyes Reflection shown like a ghost whose waiting to die. The boots on her legs look happy and snug. The skirt on her thighs her hips it does hug. I like you hair that way, you should do it more often."
If I knew how, I may have cried. Instead, I was inspired to write.
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