There is no more beauty in these words... so I cower to prose. A simple letter to myself. But remembering how much I felt that even words in prose offered me so much comfort. Made me feel understood... even if written just for me. To organize the jumbled mess of emotions and thoughts stirring in my mind. Writing offered a way to slow the words down just enough until one jumped into my fingers and then onto the screen.
I want to WRITE! I want to love what I write again... I want the words to flow down in a wondrous pattern that paints a magnificent beauty of what could only encapsulate a glimpse of what I am feeling... but still, this made me feel alive!
Even when I read the harvest of the last several years... I feel I am reading the same thing over and over again. Same parallels... same sentiments... same color... same metaphors. Where is my creativity?
Sometimes my best writing came after a few (or more!) glasses of wine. No wonder artists are raging lunatics, alcoholics, and drug-induced talent. It's like it unlocks this little door that says, "Hey! Nothing you write down right now needs to make sense... you have a perfect excuse. So just write down all the nonsense and in the morning you will find it a sobering moment when you realize there was still beauty that came from a drunken moonlit night."
But I don't want that... No... I want the true inspiration. The inspiration that awakens this sleeping giant within that says, I must write this down... I must remove my ego and let all this goodness overflow onto a page that other's can experience with me... that make others feel alive with me.
With so much movement... so much change right now... I should have something that feels like it needs to pour out. And I don't.
When I am loved... I pour out. When I love... I pour out. The rest is white noise... static in the background that doesn't empower me to decipher any tangible nuggets to record.
White noise... Ugh... someone change the channel.
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