I Don’t Really Write Anymore

I don’t really write anymore. And it isn’t because I do not enjoy what used to be of utmost pacification –well, perhaps not utmost but on some high ranking of covert pleasure, like the way altruism feels, a secret sort of open-ended type of deed that is meant to fill the ambience with a floral aroma of goodness. Of righteousness? But it never really does. I suppose it never really did. I don’t think there was a flaw ever in and of itself — it was simply never meant to be enough. 

I think at some point it is of some obligatory cognitive impetus to “smell” a goodness flying out of fingers typing or penning, but it’s a spiral that twirls downward, at least that is how it was for me, at least that is how I know it to be for all excellent writers. That was an inadvertently placed phrase implying I’m excellent (haha I don’t actually feel that way) which was quite hilariously placed. 

Ah, whatever I don’t really write anymore. I have found other things to do — perhaps I may label them as hobbies as I did the first, I have found what I had been babbling about for a few months. Blah blah and blah purpose. But God has smoothed a path for me and I am grateful. 

I suppose this is the remaining writer in me with its obnoxious convoluted circumvention wanting to say a message of a sentence in an essay. I suppose this is me saying good bye to this blog and what is in it, I suppose I can keep what’s on it running and I suppose it may not be a permanent end — although I am not too sure what is to be done to a platform unheeded. Algorithms don’t get tired I guess — so it’ll just stay. 

Bye, everyone. 

Still A Teenager 

University starts up again tomorrow. Hopefully after a few weeks in there, my syntax and vocabulary will undergo some much required resurgence and I’ll be able to produce any form of good writing. Anything. I do not really understand the reason I have decided to post about this — perhaps little retrospect was the point. I have been doing a lot of not that recently. It isn’t some lingering exhaustion of the mind that I feel, or perhaps it might be, but it is just the imminence of a novelty that is keeping me on my toes. 

There are concepts of war I had never been exposed to before a few weeks ago, and it is as if something poured some washed-out oil paint on a haggard canvas, not qaint or old, but vile on many standards. In that illiterate metaphor I am trying to figuratively “paint” the idea of how I feel about retrospection — I feel almost incapable of it sometimes, because there is little memory of how I used to think and feel. It is a chosen form of dementia that keeps many ogres and trolls at bay. I guess it doesn’t matter if any of this crap makes sense or not, the point is I am wherever I am now with a goal I never had before. 

I wake up in the mornings with the consciousness that I have been preserved by God, and that I am moving with the will of Him and breathing and speaking and eating and drinking. I have entered a realm of mind that swirls only faith in a pretty glass bottle of incredulously palatable sparkling water, inviting as many others as it can, and I am grappling to remain. This is what this is about.

It is about me attempting to value and devalue and revalue in appropriate accordance to a nascent comprehension of the universe. A new existence, so to speak. I want to live better, I think is what I am trying to say. And I don’t want to do it on my terms — I want to want the written terms, because I merely want to pass safely into the firmament. 

Ah

University starts tomorrow and in some auspicious literary word vomit concoction it will be another “start” — take a deep breath, blink a few times, turn on the mental gears and leap. 

Endnote: this feature photo is my own photography. That’s a heater, I suppose meant for representing the ‘fire’ a stupid teenager continues to carry even without speaking. Blah. 

Imprudent

They are like those jittery critters 

Creepy critters, but cute 

Cute creepy critters

Jumping in jovial joy

I suppose they’re usually called butterflies

Inside the stomach of an adolescent girl watching some impending event 

It’s probably some boy, some symbol of synchronized similarity 

That this is real 

That is a past that hurts —

It hurts to return by words, or to have him talk to me about it 

There seems to be a struggle with words as I attempt to put something down 

There is little eloquence that comes with that facile wave of a graceful wand painting letters of nothing 

And pretending there is meaning

Tonight I am staring at this screen — wondering whether this frilly type of worry is healthy 

I am not too certain what fits best as an expatiation of the beautiful ineffability, I merely continue to efface side after side until something sounds fine 

So there lies little assurance that the stupid teenage girl can be okay, that she can exist like a distant ghost hovers above a soul — as that has been spoken it rests as some haunting — I don’t want that certainly 

Certainly certainly 

I think I want the days to just pass 

So that he may meet my family and I may meet his 

So that some desicion of certainty may be made 

So that I can grow up and feel at ease that

If not escape here then there 

Patience isn’t from me, nothing is I must be certain 

Ah, I cannot formulate words 

I am so certainly stupidly excited. 
endnote: this feature photo is my art and photography 

Ma

Disclaimer: This is a little reminiscent of my CWM series, but remains separate from it in various ways. Who cares anyway, right? I didn’t wish it so, but most of this is a played out reality. It reads a lot more melancholic than it is now — these are my thoughts spelled out as amateur analyses of memories I don’t want to completely let go of yet. And isn’t that what evincing is for? Continue reading “Ma”