Quick Post - No 6.

Inspiration.

Complicated simplicity.

No, no, no. That’s not creativity. It’s a form of communication - and not a real one at that, for who knows the truth behind the words, unless the person writing them is known? Written word is a form of creation, and a form of lying; a form of life, and a form of hidden deceptions. It builds images, detailed in their shape, but only half -made.

And it is not reality. Reality can be seen in the eyes and heard in the voice and felt under the skin. Don’t ask for those half-real conversations and remember with longing those snippets of ideas that ended up on the page. Don’t keep wanting the nominal, empty, black-on-white. The inspiration is floating around you on the dust particles, and how can you expect to create anything greater than a simple poem, when you rely on someone else..? Reach out your hand and grab at the images as they go by. And then fight your hardest to keep them safe, for no-one else can see what you can. Go looking for them. Come searching for them.

You know where to find us.

You, yours, me, mine.

With the scratch of pen on paper, blobs of ink spattering from a pointed nib, comes the inspiration of a creation and a page filled with spider-scrawlings of notes.
So you are, and she is, and the way I see it, and my thoughts were, and emotions are expressed when, and feelings matter if, and how..? Pages of pointless words that mean nothing alone, but when connected to her... or added to this... or placed in conjunction with why...
A memory results in a place. An image results in a colour. A feeling results in a food. And slowly but surely I am attempting to place on the wrinkled, crinkled page an accurate, concise image. In rhyming couplets. (How to make thing difficult.)

Maybe we won't last forever, but for now and today you are my whole and my life and the pieces that make you who you are make me who I am and however many they are, in the many, convoluted patterns they fit in, I have to choose the most important ones, the most effective ones, and the ones that will create the best picture and convey most effectively my thoughts and feelings... These are therefore the most difficult ones to put down on paper.

So the pen scratches and scrapes and skips across the paper. The spaces are filled with notes and words and abbreviations and then, slowly, slowly, are recreated and reformed into a complete creation. Give me time, for this will take time. Give me space, for space I will need. Give me your love because my love of yours is what I'm trying to convey and what I'm attempting to immortalise...

It's a shame I find this so damn hard.

You too?

Well, it seems I am not alone in my emptiness.
She sits, as I do, at her keyboard, and the beauty of her mind turns the feelings into words that can allow her to pour out her pain onto the page and perhaps, just perhaps, ease the tightness and relax her emotions.
Some people talk about it. Some people hide it. Others, like us, the WordOnes, write it down.

I have nothing in particular to remind me today. Only the lingering hurt that crouches like a small child just under my ribs. Every now and again it uncurls itself and stretches arms and legs and body to reach far down into my stomach and up to the base of my neck. It sighs and my throat tightens. It sighs and my shoulders tense. It sighs and my fingers twitch. In my momentary panic I obey it's commands and I feel the fear rise up through my gullet to stain my tongue with the bitter taste of soured truth. Such power this small child has.
But sometimes the elf that brings to mind such saturating memories also brings a slight relief. With a laughing word she cuts a cord and it flicks back to sting at my skin and release a breath full of thanksgiving. A Uni course. A healthy body. A job. With each tiny bit of news she unlocks a further portion of my tiny hidden cage and lets out a little more freedom. The relief is incredible.
And then suddenly all the doors slam shut. A punch in the stomach. A thud round the side of the head. A broken rib. She didn't mean it, I know. She didn't know.

Does she have a place she goes? Or a place she avoids? Is her music disunited and segmented as mine is? We take refuge in our loved ones. But when all else fails we return to our writing. What else is there to do? We are the WordOnes.

Stop thinking.

It has been a while. Sometimes life takes over and you forget that you write. You just know that you live and you breathe and you work and you relate and that's all that matters right now.
I used to think writing was something you had to work at. Some days it feels like every word you are putting on the page is being pulled out of you by a thread and it's like a marathon just getting something down. But that's only if you're working too hard at it. Because a couple of years ago I met someone who somehow proved to me that writing is something I, at least, do naturally. They didn't show me this by anything they said or did in particular, they showed me this by just letting me talk.
Okay, so some days it doesn't make sense. Some days nothing you write means anything when you look back on it. But then, does it? Because at the time it felt... right. The words just drifted, dribbled, dropped out of your mouth and onto the keyboard and were swept up onto the screen and it felt good. Because who says you ever have to write for someone else? Who says that writing, when someone else looks at it, has to be something someone can connect to, understand, be interested in?
I've realized that by spending those six months (was it really only six?) writing to someone else, it's somehow showed me how to write for myself. What a strange thought that is.
So here I am. Writing musings while the real reason I opened up a new post page is still lying dark and hidden in the shadows. I think I may well leave it there. It's not that important, anyway.