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The One I Truly
I guess this would be the first work I've done in a long time. I tried to force myself to be creative tonight - and it didn't happen. I think I've been using my brain too much if that makes sense. Anyway, as I stated before, its been a while. That being said, feel free to comment (positive or negative). Just don't be too brutal.
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I just want to do something. I just want to do something creative. I just want to do something creative that can explain all of these feelings and thoughts that I've always had. I just want to tell stories that can maintain and display the same fire that I've felt. I just want to portray. I don't even know why anymore. I used to think that I did, but now I don't. I used to sit in coffeehouses all night and write stories about people and places and love and losses. I used to write. I used to feel.
I used to write stories about what I felt in hopes that someone, anyone could possibly feel the same. I don't now. I don't know why. I don't know why I get these ideas to write something. I don't know why I get these ideas to write something and then open my laptop and stare forward at a blank page. I don't know why that blank page that used to challenge me. That same page that once begged me to pour every ounce of my soul onto it now seems to stare back at me with a sense of sarcastic mockery. I don't know why my brain has cut off my heart as well as my finger tips.
What was once the emotional outlet that would allow me to attach to the world now seems blocked off by some unnamed boundary. Maybe that unnamed boundary does have a name. Maybe its name is H Chinaski. Maybe its name is Bukowski. My name is J Bukowski. Maybe I've worked too long with my brain that I forgot. Maybe I have forgotten how to work with my heart. Maybe in the midst of deadlines, forced deadlines, false hopes, graduation and fears I've forgotten how to write with emotion. Maybe I've forgotten what it was like to write. Maybe I've forgotten emotion.
I don't know why I fall in love with everyone that shows me the slightest bit of fleeting, yet seemingly genuine interest. I don't know why I fall in love with places. I don't know why I fall in love with not only people, but just the mere concept people may have. I don't know why I fall in love with people and their concepts in these places. I don't know why I fell in love with Seattle. I don't know why in the span of a conversation I can fall in love. I don't know why I think of her to this day. I don't know why others can so easily distance themselves from me. I don't know why I cannot distance myself from them. I don't know why I let her affect me more than I could have apparently affected her. I don't know why I no longer warrant a phone call. I don't know why I no longer warrant.
I wish I could deem things that were relevant as unwarranted. I wish I could affect people the way they affect me. I wish I could tell people how much they affect me. I wish that I could tell people how much they affect me, and it would matter. I wish I could be heard. I wish I could be heard by her. I wish I could be heard by her and it would matter. I wish I mattered half as much to her as she does to me. I wish I could forget her because of how much she matters. I wish I could forget. I wish she'd never stop calling. I wish she'd never have stopped. I wish she had something to say. I wish she had something. I wish I could forget her. I wish she didn't forget me. I wish I forgot. I wish I could have made her happy. I wish I could've made her. I wish I could be happy.
I am a concept whore. I am an action word. I am a verb. I am wondering if she ever thinks of me. I am wondering why she left. I am wondering. I am strong. I am a leader. I am a wreck. I am irrelevant. I am a conundrum. I am the reason she moved on. I am the reason she forgot me. I am the reason she forgot.
My words can ignite a fire. My words can create plans. My words can inspire societal changes. My words can make you aware of unjust actions and the issues in our world. My words can affect anyone. My words can affect anyone but me. My words can affect anyone but her. My words cannot make me visible. To her my words and my existence are invisible. My words can be heard by all. My words can be heard by all except the one I truly want to notice. The one truly that I want. The one I truly
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Comment by: Scribe - 2007-04-21 11:47
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| You cover a lot of ground here, my friend, and if itā??s any consolation, your work, your driving force, your plight, gave me pause. The meandering road we writers tread upon is very similar but never the same. We may see the same sights, brush past the same souls, and hear the same songs but our individual, well-earned, perspective keeps them unique if only to ourselves. Iā??ve often heard myself say, ā??Before one can find the time to write, one must first find the time to become inspired.ā? Life gets in the way of our storytelling as much as it provides fodder for it. The trick is telling the difference between the two. Perhaps there is no difference. Sometimes it takes years to differentiate past events from ones that helped rather than hindered our position as a scribe. Like you yourself said, and Iā??m paraphrasing here; ā??Everything I did and who I was revolved around storytelling.ā? This is why we can make people laugh, cry, gasp, dream, wonder, grow angry and ponder. It is up to us to find a voice that best interprets the lunacy we all experience in day to day life. |
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| If this is the way you write when you think you can't I can't begin to imagine how impressive your writing is when you feel you can write! I really enjoyed the style of the piece and the emotion attached to it. I know the feelings you write about all too well! |
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Comment by: - 2007-03-02 14:30
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| This reads about like a journal entry and I found it interesting; a bit repetitive but that is the way with pieces like this. I think you may be surprised at how many people read this as something they feel within themselves. Good job. I liked it. |
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Comment by: Jazmine - 2007-02-28 12:28
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"I don't now. I don't know why. I don't know why I get..." The last "I don'tknow why"could be changed to "I don't understand..." I think the echoe of I don't know why hinders the flow of thought in this piece.
"I don't know why my brain has cut off my heart as well as my finger tips."
I really like this line, I think it is a creative way to state that you have a creative block. Heh.
"I don't know why I fall in love with everyone that shows me the slightest bit of fleeting, yet seemingly genuine interest. I don't know why I fall in love with places. I don't know why I fall in love with not only people, but just the mere concept people may have. I don't know why I fall in love with people and their concepts in these places. I don't know why I fell in love with Seattle. I don't know why in the span of a conversation I can fall in love. I don't know why I think of her to this day. I don't know why others can so easily distance themselves from me. I don't know why I cannot distance myself from them. I don't know why I let her affect me more than I could have apparently affected her. I don't know why I no longer warrant a phone call. I don't know why I no longer warrant."
Oh I love this part, I can identify personally with each of these "I don't know why" I feel like I love so much and so many and it all gets so tangled and messed up. And it always feels like disapointment. Anyways, that really struck me on a powerful level. So good you.
And then the next part you elaborate on all of these ideas and again, there is passion and honesty in this that really grabs the reader.
"I am a concept whore. I am an action word. I am a verb."
I really like this part. It's really creative and reconfirms what you have already stated.
In the end you conclude this was such passion and confidence, it really helps develop the piece and take it to a new level. You are able to use your words with the power that you described and you solve the initial wants and desires in the beginning.
Very good piece, I thoroughly enjoyed reading this.
Sincerest Affections
Jazmine |
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Nice ramblings of a poet. If this work is pure fiction, then you have truly captured the writer's block which exists occasionally in the mind of an artist; if this has your character built in I find it refreshingly brutal and honest. The creative heart/mind is usually more sensitive than that of the "average" person. Call it a curse or a blessing; it doesn't change the depth of feeling. In order to write that feeling needs to be there. I know, I've looked at that blank page many times, and felt so much like your statements.
I used to write songs, and for the longest time I was unable to find it in my soul to conjour up the magic which exists inside. The humdrum which is felt during this void is expressed well in "...deadline, forced deadlines, false hopes..."; the world just seems to get in the way sometimes.
Your writing IS always there, sometimes it just has a problem getting out. Keep it up! |
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