They are the girls who rose from flames, draped in
the flickering amber
sparks
alight where their eyes should be
trembling
lashes, glittering with dews of
anger
dripping from muted tongues.
They wear no armour
no chain linked breasts
no dagger between their fingers
They do not smile like us
their laughs echo different to ours
But gaze upon their shoulders,
O wise one,
their scraped hands and knees,
have you ever seen such
twisted beauty?
Burnt raw
black and
scarred and
empty
and yet
Past the hollow collarbones and
ripped lips, the kingdom of
storms on stained
cheeks
there is a softness in those flames
a whisper in the crackling
a thirst in the hunger
these are battered souls
war weary
from the battles of their past
but they remain standing
(soldiers' courage)
their grace does not falter
look to them and they might
share their strength
their struggle
their story.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Saturday, April 19, 2014
14. But as long as I can write
I'm writing again because I'm stuck in a rut. A life rut. It's an awful place to be and I'm not even in the worst of it.
Every time I feel this way - like I'm wasting it if I'm not creating something or doing something I'm passionate about - my instinct is to write.
But then once I sit down at my laptop staring a a blank white screen and a blinking cursor, or in front of a piece of perfectly lined paper and a scratchy felt tip pen in hand, I'm overcome with the second problem.
Nothing I write is never good enough. I'm honestly not sure if it's because I think I'm a lot better at writing than I actually am (and have just absorbed all the wonderful words of other people and in my mind have just pretended they're mine) or if I can write and it's just that I'm afraid to try in case I disappoint myself. Neither is a great position to be in for someone who has spent almost her whole life hanging onto the dream of becoming a writer.
I think it might be the fact that I found something I really really like and that I didn't completely and utterly suck at and then I just latched on to it like there's no tomorrow - declaring it my life's one true love and revolving all my other hopes and dreams around it. Maybe, in the cold, harsh place that is reality, writing is just another thing I enjoy doing - along with singing, dancing, drawing, photography, playing the piano - but no more than that. Maybe it's just a hobby. Maybe I had completely deluded myself into believing that writing was my 'thing' and that it was something I was good at and something I could dedicate myself to and finally be proud of. When, really, I'm no better than the average teenaged blogger who thinks she's much more profound and eloquent than she really is.
It sucks, because I had spent so much time imagining this life for myself. The life of a writer. And, honestly, I had kind of sort of fallen in love with it. I'm not picky. I've kept it broad and relatively realistic.
I could be a freelance writer for alternative magazines like Frankie or Yen or Peppermint and write little things about big ideas and then someone like me will read them and smile because their thoughts had somehow ended up on those matte pages without them even writing a word and it's amazing. I'll write death and why it's scary and time and why it hurts. I'll write about happiness and love and the importance of family. I'll stir some blood and write about religion and homosexuality and war and politics. (And I'll read and read and read (and read and read) so that I write about stuff I know and I'll always be learning and it will be so wonderful). I'll also write about cookies and late afternoon sunlight and the ocean and kids' laughter and dogs.
And I'll travel the world. Because writers travel the world, right? And I'll interview people from all walks of life and I'll listen to their stories and I'll laugh and cry and my heart will be in pieces but I'll listen, I will always listen. Then I'll write about them so that more people can hear their stories and their voices will echo through my writing and that's the most important thing of all.
The most important thing in the world for me is to help other people. And it's been this way ever since I can remember. I honestly don't think any other way of living my life would be right. I don't know exactly how I'm going to do it, but writing has always been a part of the solution. Writing and teaching. Maybe I'll write little pieces or maybe I'll write a whole book. I've always wanted to write a novel but it may be a long time before I'm ready to do that. Or maybe I'll teach other people how to read and write. That way, people who are much more clever than I am (most people, I believe) and have more important things to say will have the tools to say them. I'm ok, you know? But other people are incredible and I can' stop thinking of the minds and hearts and souls that are silenced in our world simply because they were not born into rich, privileged lives like us. And even people who are have been silenced and they're afraid and I wish they weren't because I want to hear what they have to say and, even though it may not know it, so does the world.
So here we are. At the end of this collection of 26 letters and occasional spaces. What am I saying? I don't even know. I never really know. Maybe everything I've just written is rubbish. It most likely is. But that's ok. Because this dream of mine - this insanely unrealistic, idealistic dream of mine - it makes me ridiculously happy. And it tricks me into thinking that I know who I am and where I'm going and if that makes me whimsical and foolish then so be it.
I'm looking forward to my being the whimsical fool that writes and reads and travels the world and helps and empowers others. I look forward to it very much.
Every time I feel this way - like I'm wasting it if I'm not creating something or doing something I'm passionate about - my instinct is to write.
But then once I sit down at my laptop staring a a blank white screen and a blinking cursor, or in front of a piece of perfectly lined paper and a scratchy felt tip pen in hand, I'm overcome with the second problem.
Nothing I write is never good enough. I'm honestly not sure if it's because I think I'm a lot better at writing than I actually am (and have just absorbed all the wonderful words of other people and in my mind have just pretended they're mine) or if I can write and it's just that I'm afraid to try in case I disappoint myself. Neither is a great position to be in for someone who has spent almost her whole life hanging onto the dream of becoming a writer.
I think it might be the fact that I found something I really really like and that I didn't completely and utterly suck at and then I just latched on to it like there's no tomorrow - declaring it my life's one true love and revolving all my other hopes and dreams around it. Maybe, in the cold, harsh place that is reality, writing is just another thing I enjoy doing - along with singing, dancing, drawing, photography, playing the piano - but no more than that. Maybe it's just a hobby. Maybe I had completely deluded myself into believing that writing was my 'thing' and that it was something I was good at and something I could dedicate myself to and finally be proud of. When, really, I'm no better than the average teenaged blogger who thinks she's much more profound and eloquent than she really is.
It sucks, because I had spent so much time imagining this life for myself. The life of a writer. And, honestly, I had kind of sort of fallen in love with it. I'm not picky. I've kept it broad and relatively realistic.
I could be a freelance writer for alternative magazines like Frankie or Yen or Peppermint and write little things about big ideas and then someone like me will read them and smile because their thoughts had somehow ended up on those matte pages without them even writing a word and it's amazing. I'll write death and why it's scary and time and why it hurts. I'll write about happiness and love and the importance of family. I'll stir some blood and write about religion and homosexuality and war and politics. (And I'll read and read and read (and read and read) so that I write about stuff I know and I'll always be learning and it will be so wonderful). I'll also write about cookies and late afternoon sunlight and the ocean and kids' laughter and dogs.
And I'll travel the world. Because writers travel the world, right? And I'll interview people from all walks of life and I'll listen to their stories and I'll laugh and cry and my heart will be in pieces but I'll listen, I will always listen. Then I'll write about them so that more people can hear their stories and their voices will echo through my writing and that's the most important thing of all.
The most important thing in the world for me is to help other people. And it's been this way ever since I can remember. I honestly don't think any other way of living my life would be right. I don't know exactly how I'm going to do it, but writing has always been a part of the solution. Writing and teaching. Maybe I'll write little pieces or maybe I'll write a whole book. I've always wanted to write a novel but it may be a long time before I'm ready to do that. Or maybe I'll teach other people how to read and write. That way, people who are much more clever than I am (most people, I believe) and have more important things to say will have the tools to say them. I'm ok, you know? But other people are incredible and I can' stop thinking of the minds and hearts and souls that are silenced in our world simply because they were not born into rich, privileged lives like us. And even people who are have been silenced and they're afraid and I wish they weren't because I want to hear what they have to say and, even though it may not know it, so does the world.
So here we are. At the end of this collection of 26 letters and occasional spaces. What am I saying? I don't even know. I never really know. Maybe everything I've just written is rubbish. It most likely is. But that's ok. Because this dream of mine - this insanely unrealistic, idealistic dream of mine - it makes me ridiculously happy. And it tricks me into thinking that I know who I am and where I'm going and if that makes me whimsical and foolish then so be it.
I'm looking forward to my being the whimsical fool that writes and reads and travels the world and helps and empowers others. I look forward to it very much.
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