I long ago abandoned myself to a blind lust for written word. You see, literature is my sandbox.In it I play, build my forts and castles, spend glorious time.
However, it is the world outside the box that gives me trouble.I have adapted tamely though not conventionally, to this visible world so that I can retreat without much inconvenience into my inner world of books.
Transmuting this sandy metaphor,if literature is my sandbox, then the real world is my hourglass- an hour glass that drains grain by grain. Literature gives me life and life kills me.
That brings me to the ultimate question just how elastic is literature in its quest to give life?
''Why does one begin to write?''
''... because she feels misunderstood I guess, because it never comes out clearly enough when she tries to speak..because she wants to rephrase the world, to take it in and give it back again differently, so that everything is used and nothing is lost..., because its something to do to pass the time until she is strong enough to experience the things she writes about.''
I haven't always been crazy about my somber moods -those that drive me to the welt, my pen.After all, the despair of the blank page: It is so full.
However, what streamlines me to manifest my art is something even bigger than myself. The idea that there can be beauty in the pain I recreate and each time the ink spills, I hope that I can make something beautiful grow from every piece of dirt that has been thrown at me. I may not be the most beautiful thing you've ever seen but my love could be. Most importantly, my soul poured out could be the empathy you need to gain another perspective.
Tune in as I so I cheerfully return to my abandoned sandbox, to gain some laughs, dish out others, and to entertain your imagination.😎 Miss me? Buckle up!
Yours blogfully,
the prodigal writer.
However, it is the world outside the box that gives me trouble.I have adapted tamely though not conventionally, to this visible world so that I can retreat without much inconvenience into my inner world of books.
Transmuting this sandy metaphor,if literature is my sandbox, then the real world is my hourglass- an hour glass that drains grain by grain. Literature gives me life and life kills me.
That brings me to the ultimate question just how elastic is literature in its quest to give life?
''Why does one begin to write?''
''... because she feels misunderstood I guess, because it never comes out clearly enough when she tries to speak..because she wants to rephrase the world, to take it in and give it back again differently, so that everything is used and nothing is lost..., because its something to do to pass the time until she is strong enough to experience the things she writes about.''
I haven't always been crazy about my somber moods -those that drive me to the welt, my pen.After all, the despair of the blank page: It is so full.
However, what streamlines me to manifest my art is something even bigger than myself. The idea that there can be beauty in the pain I recreate and each time the ink spills, I hope that I can make something beautiful grow from every piece of dirt that has been thrown at me. I may not be the most beautiful thing you've ever seen but my love could be. Most importantly, my soul poured out could be the empathy you need to gain another perspective.
Tune in as I so I cheerfully return to my abandoned sandbox, to gain some laughs, dish out others, and to entertain your imagination.😎 Miss me? Buckle up!
Yours blogfully,
the prodigal writer.
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