I just spent about an hour writing something.
Then I deleted it.
FML.
I just never feel like my writing is good enough
to match what is unravelling itself in my mind.
I have a vision somewhere in me,
but it rarely rests on my tongue.
Even if it rested there,
it would be very difficult for me bring it to paper.
I started out writing about snow.
I love writing about snow and how melancholy it makes me feel.
Then I pictured myself on Garrett Bourdon's porch.
Then I pictured myself doing something that makes me feel really cozy:
smoking a cigarette, drinking a glass of scotch.
Then I pictured myself staring at a girls' neckline.
Then I find myself wanting to tell a story.
Why am I always wanting to tell a story?
Who really cares if there is no link between all of the images?
I wish I could just write something beautiful and be okay with that.
3 comments:
This is the most honest, and therefore best (in my opinion) thing you've written that I've read.
Recently, I've found myself entranced by art that reels back in some form to talk about itself, or in this case the artist. Funny that I come here to read this. I like.
This is the best thing I've written? Huh. Thanks.
And thanks GJ. You should watch Adaptation, in that case. I love that movie and I think you might too. Emphasis on "might". I can never tell what you'll love and hate.
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