With that title comes the confliction of thought. Life is a complexity I often get lost in, trying to understand how I feel, why I feel that way? And on certain days, trying to understand how I stopped feeling ways I once did. And other days fearful I’ll become the people that frustrate me the most.
I spent over a decade filling up notebooks, and computer memory writing out words that I felt were shit. I’ve never felt any of it was worthy enough to finish, let alone share. All the lines played out, simply it was all shit.
I’ve always been fearful of where it would all lead, the more I write the further I go. Unlocking the corridors of my brain, horrific imagery in every turn. Afraid of losing my sense of reality as I navigate the insanity within my own mind. I’ve always joked with my husband if I ever fully thrown myself within a story he’d have to pick me up within a month from the asylum. Recently I’ve asked myself isn’t that better than the alternative? Never finishing a single fucking thing.
Over the past few months I’ve been allowing myself to create, anything at all. No longer am I hiding out of fear of everything being shit. I’m just embracing the creative process. As the words flow out and twisted imagery fills the pages from somewhere that isn’t myself, for I’m not an adult overcoming terrible conditions. My childhood wasn’t dark and disturbing, I didn’t grow up in a broken home. A speech impediment kept me quiet, embarrassed, and ashamed to speak in public. I’m thankful because of that I built a connection with my imagination. An imagination of dark sorts that sometimes can be quite terrifying.
The whole point of this blog is to share what I’m working on, consisting of my art, writing, and poetry. The poetry will either convey an emotion I’m feeling at the time or reflect upon a character I’m in the middle of understanding.
I’m sharing at the risk of making little to no sense to others. I’ve realized most of what makes sense to me rarely makes sense to other people often I’m left unsure of what to say next in conversation. Which is the reason I’ve spent most my life sheltering away from other human beings. Which places me in a subcategory isolated from the majority of the worlds population. An odd hermit, asocial type, not to be mistaken for anti-social I’m not a psychopath causing harm to others I simply prefer a small social circle. Honestly I’ve come to accept that I’m a temperamental nut case over the years and now I embrace it as something to be proud of. Rather than ashamed of.
Poetry, stories, art is all up to the viewers interpretation. Although I may have an opinion and an emotion I may have set out to provoke within an audience, they’ll interpret how they see fit. I’ve accepted that’s ok, people may take something I write and view it in a way in which I never intended. I use to feel a story could change the world if I wrote the right one, if I found the right words, and then I accepted the reality. People will interpret a story in the way in which their mind perceives. And I’ll never find the perfect words, for the perfect characters, because human beings rarely say the right things, why should I hold my characters to such high standards.
I’m sharing myself at the risk of total insanity
and the lack of security
confining myself within solitude
all while embracing the crude.
You don’t have to be out there
to know the world isn’t fair
and to connect
isn’t it quite complex
all of this
all of us.
I simply live
I have nothing left to forgive
I’ve been quietly observing
over heated and hovering
leaving my heart on the lowest shelf
as it’s shredded by the carnivores
if only I myself was a herbivore
Lost amongst the words of our leader
nothing but a creeper
is our new nationalism
are simple disinfections
Need I say more?