Oh flustered days and restless nights. Oh captured memories and vagabond shoes. Oh what the hell am I writing about now?
I just finished my Music essay for Unit 4, and I’m sitting here wondering what to do next. Now, I’m sitting here, wondering what to write next. Familiar territory? Oh yes, you better believe it.
When I first started writing like a banshee back in 2010 and 11, I never wondered what I would write about, I just wrote. When I go back now and read some of my old posts, sometimes I laugh out loud, because it’s true, I wrote a lot of those like a ping pong ball bouncing across a ceramic tile floor. First here, then there, then over there and back this way. It didn’t matter, it didn’t wonder, it didn’t think twice about what I was trying to accomplish, it just became a page full of text, a page full of metaphors and mindful illustrations. It became me, and me, it.
I suppose I have written so much because of one reason, and one reason alone, because I’m supposed to. Plain, and simple.
I always thought I would be bouncing around in my work truck until I retired at the age of 423, but lo and behold, how life can twist your dimensions to fit into exactly something you have no clue about.
And here I am.
I’m sorry if I’m not making any sense, but sooner or later you just gotta get used to it, right?
My vision has gotten a lot worse these past few months, almost to the point where I have no light perception at all now. Half the time I can’t even tell if the sun is out, unless I can feel its warmth. It pisses me off, but there isn’t much I can do about it except learn to live with it.
And here I am, living with it, and living with that, and this right here, and those other things over there, and once again I have no idea what I’m writing about, but you know what? I’m still writing, and through it all, I’m learning how to live. There’s more to life than sight. I have to live it to learn what it is, and slowly, like a roaming goat, I’m living it up like only I can.
I wonder if in a year or so I’ll go back and read this post again and laugh. I wonder if I’ll shake my head and say to myself, “What the…”
Here’s a short poetic blurb that I wrote the other night. It’s not finished, but then again, what is?
Stranger than fiction.
A brisk walk along side a metaphor
Emotions grab hold and take shape
The journey begins with a phrase
The words pack our bags and take us away
Lost in the mind as the fingers reach out.
Captured by letters abound.
Vast, barren screen waits patiently.
Descriptions of sight within sound.
The keypad is clicking its way down the page.
The story untold becomes true.
The letters start forming as the fiction takes hold.
The end of the chapter is you.
As you can see, it’s a rough draft at best. Fact is, pretty much most of my writings have been rough drafts lately. It’s as if a piece of me is suspended somewhere else and I just can’t seem to finish stuff. I like the word, stuff, don’t you? A friend of mine makes fun of me because I use it a lot. I’m smiling right now thinking about it. Can you tell?
Where was I?
Oh ya, about the poem that isn’t finished yet. Don’t hold your breath, because you just might run out of, umm, breath, ok?
I am so glad you decided to drop by my blog, and I do hope that you get a chance to finish the stuff you start. Grin
There I go again.