I wish I wrote the way I thought;
With maddening hunger.
I’d write to the point of
I’d write myself into
Manuscripts spiralling out
Like tentacles into abysmal
And I’d write about you
A lot more
Than I should.
I Wish I Wrote The Way I Thought
I don’t usually share other people’s writing on here but I somewhat accidentally stumbled upon this poem the other day and it hit me hard. The kind of hard hit that is felt somewhere beneath the ribs. The kind that makes your heart go “YES, that’s what I’ve been trying to say for a while now but haven’t found the right words for.” All these unfinished sentences have been just sitting in there taking up space, collecting dust, each one waiting for their own moment of deliverance. To finally get out and fit in. To belong. To be part of a bigger story.
Sometimes they really do just fall into place, effortlessly, almost forcefully. Sometimes there is absolutely no time to question what word should come next or with what literary colours a thing wants to be painted- it simply unfolds as you go. All you need to do is grab hold of that first little thread, give it a gentle tug and soon you’ll find that what once was cloaked and hidden now stands there bare, right in front of your eyes. Funny how the mere speed and intensity of which the naked is being revealed can be suffocating and a breath of fresh air, all at once.
I crave whatever is real and I hunger for truth but still, from time to time I find the real hidden somewhere deep within, held back by a need to understand before I let it into the light. Once again, we’re back to that familiar need to be in control.
Sometimes, I just want to get it right. I want it to make sense and, the problem with writing the way you think is- it ofted doesn’t. The reality is, my thoughts are a world of their own. They are wild, unpredictable, loud and confusing and they don’t like being controlled. They like to heard. And I’m not saying they are always right (a lot of times they’re not) but what I am saying is- if I never allow them to speak, I will never be able to judge if I want to belive them.
I need to write in order to understand myself. I need to see my thought in front of me, pouring out of my pen like a stream, filling the page like rivers fill the sea. I want to see what they look like, the thoughts, even when they scare me. Even when the sheer amount of them makes me feel dizzy. Yet another reason to let them out of my head, I suppose.
I lay awake over words. I really do.
Most my days are tinted by a constant need to see every detail, to feel everything to the fullest and then translate that feeling into something tangible, into something that will enable me to always return to it. I have this endless voice in my head that tirelessly narrates every little thought, feeling or sensation, and I do my best to act as it’s transcriber.
I have yet to find anything that gives me even close to the thrill I get from whenever I’m completely swallowed up by this process of translation. That’s when I feel the most alive, most like myself. There is a certain kind of freedom found in creating that can’t be found anywhere else, I’m sure of it.
I love this voice and if my home burned down to the ground it would probably be the first thing I’d grab hold of, but it does come with a prize. Sometimes, it’s simply a lot. Way too much to follow, way too fast and whenever that happens, I just freeze. Sometimes for seconds, sometimes, minutes, sometimes weeks. I just stand there, smack right in the middle of this raging river, and instead of letting go and allowing it to take me on a wild ride I plant my feet and demand it tell me where it’s heading.
“Show me the end and I’ll let you take me anywhere.”
We never reveal endings, only beginnings. We never tell, we show. Trust us. Trust and let go.
Sometimes I do and sometimes I fight back but, in the end, the river will almost always get it’s way and when it does I’m reminded of why I got in it in the first place. The very moment the ground falls away beneath me will forever be the sweetest release. And I might not know when, where or how, but I know it will be a trip I don’t want to miss out on.
Kind of like now.
All I really meant to do was share this poem I found and maybe say a few words about it. Now the clock is about to hit 2am, and I have no idea what the hell just happened. Normally I would go back and make sure all the different parts of the puzzle fit, that it all makes sense, but this time I think I’ll just leave it as is.
After all, something in me appearantly wanted to write the way I thought.