Wednesday, January 20, 2010

from there to here

...coming from an adolescence of constant writing; I mean sometimes writing in my various notebooks and journals twice or three times a day, as I've merged into the beginning of my adult life, I've found that now I encounter periods when my writing is on fire, and I also (more frequently) encounter periods when my writing is lackluster, at best.

It's not that I have nothing to say, because I usually always have something to say.

But, it's just that I'm in (yet another) period of shift. And in periods of shift, it can be difficult to write. I know, I know, one is supposed to write during these periods, to chronicle growth and all that good stuff.

But I guess I'm just leaving behind the days of endless rumination on things I can't fix, people I can't make act right, days I can't get back. I spent a number of days fixated on days I couldn't get back. This became my writing's signature; its ultimate catalyst.

These were productive writing days, despite what these days did to me on the inside. Sometimes I would sit outside, overwhelmed with emotion at the breeze in the trees, thinking about so many things at one time, it seemed positively definite that my head would explode from the weight of it all.

Sometimes, I'd sit in my room with my "box," the box of multiple poems and thoughts inspired by believed life failures. I'd replay the events that inspired the poems, and I'd be overwhelmed all over again.



Today, I felt like I should write something. So I went upstairs, grabbed my notebook, this laptop, and that big black book full of my best and worst poetry from my more prolific writing periods. I wrote a tiny blurb in the notebook, felt unsatisfied, and put it aside. I opened the big black book of poetry and flipped through the beginning through some very familiar poems...

...and almost as soon as I opened it, I realized I was tired. Actually, tired is not the right word. I felt displaced. A place where I was once at home--sitting with melancholy songs, reading my words and thinking about things far, far gone--no longer felt right. It brings to mind returning, as an adult, to a place you once frequented as a child. Nothing looks or feels the way it once did. I changed the song I was listening to, and closed the big black book. It now is back on my shelf, upstairs.


The idea of it all is something I apparently left behind with the girl who wrote all those poems. I've finally stepped through the threshold between the life I lamented and the life I'm living, without consciously trying (well, not recently), but confident that I would eventually get there.


I've spent years, years, focused on the things I thought would always be of the utmost importance to me... love, being loved by someone, being in love...

I guess as I've gotten older, I've just lost a lot of that steam. That focus could only power itself uphill for so long without losing significant ground. I'm still a romantic, but as I exist on this earth, I see that there are a lot of other things more pressing that I could be turning my attention toward rather than giving a second thought (and a third, and a fourth, and fifth) to any prevalent romantic frustrations.

I guess I'm just... older. (and wiser.)

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