Get busy living, or…

I’ve found myself thinking about aging a lot recently, looking back upon my accomplishments and finding myself wanting.  It makes me consider whether or not I am living up to the time I have on this Earth and whether I am pursuing a path that I ultimately want to pursue.

The most interesting aspect of this, to me, is that I inevitably am pulled back to writing despite how much the forces in my life would encourage me to stop.  And yet I have not produced anything substantial since I wrote my novella in 2008.  That’s been nearly ten years.  And yes I have produced small things here and there (mostly poems), but the depth of the output has been severely lacking.

So in an effort to kickstart myself I am gearing up to write at least something five days a week.  This could be something small.  Not all will be of great quality (certainly not), but the hardest thing to do is start, or so they say.

To put my money where my mouth is, I’m going to start with writing a poem, right here, sort of slamming it out as I type this blog post.  This will be capital R-A-W raw, but hey at least it is something.

And so, to begin:

Quiet.  I slammed the door shut,

or thought I did.

I was, in fact, alone.

The crack of the doorframe noise to me alone,

My voice never rising from my throat.

But I spoke my words to the audience for whom

They were intended.

Bleating voices, thoughts, whispers, images.

A world of chaos that reduced me

Of my strength, demanded my attention,

And me, sitting at a screen at two in the morning,

nursing a pot of hot tea, listening to rain

scratching at my windowpane

and wondering why I suffer so when all the world’s asleep;

if I might be wiser to search for silence and peace somewhere sane.  Normal.

Dreams.  Perhaps.

A partner? A bottle?

Fair suggestions, but tried before and

all attempts had left me depleted.

Indeed years I spent finding myself a normal life

With normality becoming a crutch and then a concrete cell

And damned if I will let it be a coffin as well.  My

Insides had emptied out; my soul went still.

Outside, cacophonic sirens wailed,

rubber-banding by my window and reminding me,

like a ticking clock,

That though the hour is late, I must not mistake

my fatigue for permission to relent.

I like it.  I can never tell after writing something if it’s very good or not—I tend to be very critical of work once I return to it.  But that first draft does manage to sometimes capture a feeling that you channel which is often very easily lost by too meddling of an editor (even when the editor is yourself).  Here, I cannot honestly say this was all knocked out in the space of a minute or two—I wrote it and went back and picked it over for patterns that I liked, tried to tighten it up, and otherwise polished it (though only just slightly) before carrying on with the post.  This one did not start out with any particular rhythm or rhyme (and still doesn’t have anything exceedingly formal or consistent), but I did find a few rhymes there and with some massaging decided to embrace the tempo they created, especially when read aloud.

Let me know what you think of it.  I don’t suspect all of my posts here will be devoted to writing poetry or what’s going on in my life.  I think sometimes I’ll want to write about stories I’ve seen in other media, maybe provide a review or comment on a tactic I’ve seen.  But, as start’s go, I think this will do.

Hope to see you again soon.



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