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Writer rambles about being a writer and writing

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The art of writing combines dexterity with imagination, stamina, procrastination and insane mental journeys. You have to be worthy of being a criminal mastermind as well as be worthy of an asylum [at times]. You must also write. A hurdle in the process, but one necessary. Be prepared to feel bewildered, afraid and feeling the sweat of anticipation, precipitate on your brow. New life flows from your fingertips, so you may need to relax before you release the hidden truths locked in your very universes. Writers are gods of the hidden realms and the keeper of the keys of knowledge. Weavers of magic and wonder, the storm winds of change. They are the ones that have made history and recorded it. The beginning and the end. 

 

Your very body is composed of words in your own language spoken internally, a voice that never stays quiet. Writers are the ones that can transmute that disquiet into something new, something real. 

 

So as a writer, I live in those pockets between existence and ethereal. I fall into them without trying to. New voices and destinies cascade across my very dreams. Their lives live out in disquiet, wanting their truths known. The living and dead exist together, like threads bound to this world. One golden thread shimmering with breath, heartbeat and roaring noises screaming to the sky. The other, a thin translucent line, glittering like glass, whispering like the wind. The hidden. Clinging together and staying true to its course. I write for the whispers because it is only then, that the noise makes sense. 

 

You. You fascinate me.

Why?

We are our own universes… how you live, who you are, the things you love, your day… everything is beautiful and unknown to me. I want to know. I want to watch you. I want to breathe you in. I want to love your ways. You are like a veil; I want to see what is underneath. Yet, I do not want to move amongst you, I am comfortable, happy even, in my own cave. I am a child of heavy black curtains drawn, and candle light at all hours. The light is not the friend of my own church – the place I get to, to fall into the mode of just writing. 

 

As you can see, I have free wrote. I have simply sat here and let my hands and mind speak, freely. Post Malone playing in the background. My heart and soul lay open. Awaiting the crows to peck out my soul. Each crow wears my face; the face of extreme exhaustion, the face of distraction, the face of time going to fast. Deep breath. Stop. Now go. 


Permalink 1 comment (latest comment by Philip Mwarabu, Saturday, 4 May 2019, 22:21)
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