Am I Doing This Write?

One may almost doubt if the wisest man has learned anything of absolute value by living.

Forgive me, for I have been away for a long time. I think now is the time for words.

I’m going to write today about what it means to write. Let us prepare to grapple with the ineffable itself, and see if we may not eff it after all.

I can only consider myself a writer insofar as to believe that I pen my thoughts for others to read. I cannot, however, claim that my writing is any good. With the advent of social media sites, there are far too many young people today who feel a sense of entitlement to have their opinions heard. Unfortunately, most of them don’t deserve as much. Writing is in a sense, the art of losing yourself. Like accidental poetry.

What is it about certain books that make us fall in love? That transports us to alternate dimensions? The difference is being a genius in writing – to immerse oneself in it, separate its numerous strands, and appreciate its subtle nuances. Art exists as a medium for other ends. We want only to create, and THAT is what art is. The creating; not the product. Unfortunately, this escapes most would-be writers. But it is a characteristic of wisdom to not do desperate things.

“Writers aren't exactly people… They’re a whole bunch of people trying to be one person.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald

The trick is to exist within your characters. Inhabit their souls. One needs only to be perspicuous enough to breathe some semblance of reality into them to create something, someone, worth falling in love with. It shames me to think that a writer can claim to have no attachment to who they create. It’s a part of you, ffs!

Fleeting moments are what create stories. Even renowned writers have to start from a nagging idea that can only be fully formed in the process. The idea is to be relatable by being human. There is no extreme happiness nor extreme sadness; only the verisimilitude that exists in life. Translate that and expose it. You will be commended.

I hate to admit that I know of some people who are strong believers in their writing ability and this is rather unfortunate. No young writer has the liberty to have such an ego about their work. Only, I’m not brave enough to tell them so myself… WOW SUBTEXT. This is for you.

To summarise: Your writing is never as good as you think it is. I'm not exempt.

P.S.  I hate that the font that gets posted doesn't have serifs. I ought to fix that.

There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

I went for a birthday party some time last year (ages ago, I know) and it was my first real experience. I wrote about it in my book, and thought that perhaps it was time to share it with you.

 It goes:

When I arrived, I felt as if I'd been introduced to the land of the living, the home of the free, and the bungee-jumpers with no strings attached. What is this place? Are these real people?
I was cascading in the colourful darkness of alcohol-induced lust and the necessary pain of walking in heels. We were elegant peacocks, all of us; comparing plumage and strutting with airs. It was a facade, of course it was, but it was new and I was enjoying it.
Is this what it means to take your life into your own hands? What is this intense compulsion to give yourself away to all the other free souls?
Adulthood is never awarded gradually.
There is no simple way to become accustomed to it. It is a mechanical beast that feeds on uneasiness, peer pressure, the desire we all harbour to fit in - and this beast is relentless! It sucks you into this spasming chaos unrestrained and the vortex doesn't become apparent until you are drowning in it. But it's almost as if it can't be helped; you must endure. You must pull through, because adulthood is on the other side of it. You'll only know you've reached it when the buzzing world has become merely a sickening thought and the sticky sweetness of nostalgia is the only reminder.
I've only just arrived.
I'm not ready to leave yet.
This is the transition state of my being.

Addict

The desperation of an addict.

I know it only too well. It reeks of regret, nostalgia, and obviously, depression.

It is the feeling one gets when everything can seemingly only go downhill. It is the painful process of realisation and consternation, a pleading desire to not go into the light. The wanting of change – and the stubbornness to not want to pull through. It is a monumental Everest that I don’t have the breath to climb. It is the inane fear of not being able to survive it.

But perhaps this time will be different. Oh, how I will try! But do I want to?

“Although many of us think that we are thinking creatures that feel; we are, in fact, feeling creatures that think.”

I am ashamed of myself. Ashamed of my body’s craving. It is a ridiculous notion to think that my physiological being overpowers my mental one. I simply cannot be that weak! I have the willpower, I have the desire, and I have the shattering glass.

It must end. It ought to have ended before it began, and this is what pains me. I’m done creating futile excuses for my weakness. I’ve experienced the hypnagogic jerk that has reawakened me to who I’ve been.

But I’m better than that.