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Criminy crickets!
I’ve tried to write this entry twice now. Upon the second attempt I completed an entire page just to hit CTRL+A then delete. None of it was working. The words weren’t coming out right; the language was vague, what I was trying to get across was drowning in metaphoric nonsense, and it just sounded cheesy really.
I must admit I am not fairing well with the thirty day blogging adventure. It takes more than just inspiration for me to write, and I don’t rightly know what the “more” is honestly. I write at a literal nudge I do not comprehend. In order for me to write clearly, to write honestly, to paint with words, there has to be this nudge. There has to be something beyond an inspiration, beyond an idea, beyond a kick starter - there has to be the nudge. I guess I could try and put the nudge into words, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to fail. The nudge is like gasoline to an already lit fire. The fire is an inspiration, an idea, or a topic, like say… a street sign, a particular interaction with another human being, starting a commune, becoming a vagabond, anarcho-communism, religion, or human ethics versus professional ethics in today’s fearful society. The fires are always there inside my being. There are fires throughout my being actually - in my head, in my heart, in my gut. Though the fires cannot be brought into words without the nudge. The only way to get the fires to consume the pages is to pour gasoline on them, and that’s what the nudge is - it’s the gasoline that is needed to burn down these pages in order to put the fires out inside my being. I don’t know where the nudge comes from, I don’t know how the nudge works, I don’t know when the nudge is going to come - all I do know is that there is a nudge that must come my way in order for me to write what I consider to be my best. I can spew mediocre bland five words sentences until I croak, but that’s not something I want to do. Mediocrity isn’t my cup of tea. I need to leave this keyboard cover in sweat run down from my brow to chin, blood from my chewed up nails beating these keys, and strands of hair from constantly pulling it trying to coerce the words out of my brain. I need to get up from writing and feel vulnerable, and questioning as to whether I should delete all that I put out there due to my own fears. If I feel exposed and afraid after what I’ve written then I’ve put into words something that makes me proud of myself.
If anything this thirty day writing adventure is teaching me things about myself I didn’t know. If anything these “forced” writings are like little therapists of their own. You see, a therapist can come in all shapes and sizes; mine come in human form, some come in the form of books, one of my therapist was stolen the other day (but I’ll find another), one of my favorite therapist comes in the form of a well trodden trail through forest, another at the end of a tattoo gun, and so on and so forth. It seems this thirty day adventure had more in store for me than I thought. Who knew…
Day Nine Complete,
Haley
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