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Look, a post.
It says nothing.
Which is a good illustration of the results of the day.
The 24 hours that make up the day were all here, so it must have been me who was somehow missing.
I keep thinking I'm waiting for something... or I'm looking for something... or I'm missing something.
I'm really hoping that that thing it's my life, because that ticks away like the seconds on the clock. Perhaps I'm waiting for my life to be perfect. A driving need that makes me erase and edit most of the sentences that I end up typing. I type the sentence, then delete it. Type it again -- maybe not even changing a word, then delete it again.
Are my thoughts so very incomplete and scattered that I can't make them come out right once they make it past the keyboard? Why can't they look as good as they sound when they are being formed in my head? What strange power do my fingertips have that, by merely traveling though them, my words become mangled and mundane? I believe that I have the ability to string words together, people I truest have told me that I do, yet why it it that the words I read on the screen never match that belief? Maybe it's not the fingertips. Maybe the only curse the fingertips have is the inability to type the correct letters. Maybe it's my brain. Maybe by the time I read the words I've just typed I've heard them so often in my brain that they aren't new or fresh anymore and I just see them as old because I've been thinking them for too long.
I really can't do that whole type it down and just keep going thing. It makes my brain hurt and my palms itch. I end up deleting perfectly good words simply because I feel incomplete without using the delete key. And, truly, my brain seems to lock up and freeze out when I force myself to type what I'm actually thinking.
Hell of a thing.
I've decided that I really don't want to be a writer.
No.
What I really want to be is someone who has written.
I'd like to skip all the painful inbetween steps and go right from idea to finished product.
A writer is someone who, unlike me, actually manages to get words down on paper.
Gads. That's a wallowy and melodramatic statement, no?
Sleep calls.
Ta.
It says nothing.
Which is a good illustration of the results of the day.
The 24 hours that make up the day were all here, so it must have been me who was somehow missing.
I keep thinking I'm waiting for something... or I'm looking for something... or I'm missing something.
I'm really hoping that that thing it's my life, because that ticks away like the seconds on the clock. Perhaps I'm waiting for my life to be perfect. A driving need that makes me erase and edit most of the sentences that I end up typing. I type the sentence, then delete it. Type it again -- maybe not even changing a word, then delete it again.
Are my thoughts so very incomplete and scattered that I can't make them come out right once they make it past the keyboard? Why can't they look as good as they sound when they are being formed in my head? What strange power do my fingertips have that, by merely traveling though them, my words become mangled and mundane? I believe that I have the ability to string words together, people I truest have told me that I do, yet why it it that the words I read on the screen never match that belief? Maybe it's not the fingertips. Maybe the only curse the fingertips have is the inability to type the correct letters. Maybe it's my brain. Maybe by the time I read the words I've just typed I've heard them so often in my brain that they aren't new or fresh anymore and I just see them as old because I've been thinking them for too long.
I really can't do that whole type it down and just keep going thing. It makes my brain hurt and my palms itch. I end up deleting perfectly good words simply because I feel incomplete without using the delete key. And, truly, my brain seems to lock up and freeze out when I force myself to type what I'm actually thinking.
Hell of a thing.
I've decided that I really don't want to be a writer.
No.
What I really want to be is someone who has written.
I'd like to skip all the painful inbetween steps and go right from idea to finished product.
A writer is someone who, unlike me, actually manages to get words down on paper.
Gads. That's a wallowy and melodramatic statement, no?
Sleep calls.
Ta.
