Writing to Right the Written Word
The people of the universe say that when you aren't sure what to write you should just write anyways. Just put words on the page and not really have true meaning behind them, then maybe something will come out. Like the motion of writing is enough to move through the writers block and break free a piece of work you've been thinking of. I'm not exactly sure if it's true, but I guess we will find out. Writing really is a thing that takes a lot of failure. I am so incredibly afraid of failure. My fears hold me in one place. Like when you see a bug climbing in the bathtub and you rush to wash it down the drain. It's crawling away as fast as it can and trying to escape the inevitable death-by-drowning, but like I said, it's inevitable. Unavoidable. Fear is unavoidable in my sphere of thinking. There is no escape, no rest for my soul.
On occasion I draw near to books. I draw near to the comfort in their stories, lines, and letters. They tend to encompass me about with promises of w and peace. Even if, they cannot fulfill their promises. Then, there are times, when I don't pick up a book for weeks. The thought of reading makes my soul ache and my mind wants to vanish away, never to appear again. This happens so often with so many things, friends, work, school, family. I just want to vanish.
Anxiety is a feeling of fret. It is an imaginary-real worry. Something that can happen and never will, something that cannot happen and will. You race through your thoughts as you sit alone thinking, everyone will die and I will be alone. But you're already alone, and that's the worst part. It's the fear creeping in again- unavoidable, the plague. "Everything you touch turns to gold." But not in a good way.
Show me a path. Show me a guide, and I will give you every reason to dismiss it.
Writing is writing, is writing and writing. Write, right, and rite. Which is right? Wright is a name. All sound the same, but give a different meaning. I've lost my thoughts in this mess of writing to write. I feel the block coming back, the edges of light fade away... dark paths, no lights, mists of smoke rise around your ankles. Alone. Anxiety.
On occasion I draw near to books. I draw near to the comfort in their stories, lines, and letters. They tend to encompass me about with promises of w and peace. Even if, they cannot fulfill their promises. Then, there are times, when I don't pick up a book for weeks. The thought of reading makes my soul ache and my mind wants to vanish away, never to appear again. This happens so often with so many things, friends, work, school, family. I just want to vanish.
Anxiety is a feeling of fret. It is an imaginary-real worry. Something that can happen and never will, something that cannot happen and will. You race through your thoughts as you sit alone thinking, everyone will die and I will be alone. But you're already alone, and that's the worst part. It's the fear creeping in again- unavoidable, the plague. "Everything you touch turns to gold." But not in a good way.
Show me a path. Show me a guide, and I will give you every reason to dismiss it.
Writing is writing, is writing and writing. Write, right, and rite. Which is right? Wright is a name. All sound the same, but give a different meaning. I've lost my thoughts in this mess of writing to write. I feel the block coming back, the edges of light fade away... dark paths, no lights, mists of smoke rise around your ankles. Alone. Anxiety.
Comments
Post a Comment