i find myself an inspiration to others, but yet so few things inspire me. the only time i feel like i can write is when i'm sad. or lonely. in this state of less-than-subtle ennui. i find myself nostalgic and pained, and then i begin to write.
the truth is.. i feel like my
writing is a trade-off. i don't write unless i'm unhappy. either i'm
happy, but unartistic, or unhappy, but a writer. where is my
creativity? where has it gone? i want to be a writer, in lieu of my sadness.
whenever i read back on some of the things i've
written, i'm overwhelmed with how raw it is. others probably miss that
rawness, because they don't necessarily see the personal connections
i've made, but i surprise myself with how honest i allow myself to be.
i'm not talented by any means, but i sure do feel. a lot.
to curl up in a corner right now. i've always had these ideas of
sitting in my one bedroom apartment, with a typewriter, stationed on
this messy awful big wooden desk. i'd be armed with a steaming cup of
coffee, except i would never say "cup" - only "mug" because, mug sounds
more artistic. great works of literature would be scattered around me,
keeping me company as i worked. and i would write.
i would gaze
out my apartment window into the busy city (probably new york or boston
or chicago or seattle.. some wildly amazing place) and i would feel the
energy of the pavement, of the buildings, of the life around me. i would
draw on the beauty of all those millions of bodies, faces, heartbeats
in one place. and i would write.
most likely, i would be dressed
in an oversized sweater, probably cream-colored or gray. of course, i
would wear a scarf because i, like all starving artists, would be broke
and have no heat. i'd be sitting cross-legged in my chair, hair curly
and wild and unkempt as usual. i'd probably be wearing those gloves
with the missing fingers, so i could keep type-type-typing away. i'd
have papers everywhere. a pencil set between my incisors. and i would
one day, i'd like to be this person. but for now, i'm a
ghost of that. a slave to a system that is weighing me down. a shell
of that beautiful vision. my words, for now, are so muffled that i can't
even hear myself anymore. where is my voice? i think i hear it asking,
asking questions like: can i ever be an artist? is that even in me?
where did my soul go? who am i? i find myself straining, straining to
hear.. so i sit down, here, in my one bedroom apartment (the one that
looks nothing like my dream and has no desk or typewriter.. but there is
coffee, so i think it's okay), and get ready to listen. i turn up the
and i write.