It's About Time I Was Honest With You

I like describing things. Not verbally, but writing them down. And I love putting something I see in my mind onto paper for others to then imagine. Today I spent an entire paragraph just describing what one of the characters in Seasons was wearing. She was a rather oddball kind of character- a lot of fun to "dress"... I'm talking missmatched clothing, chunky gold jewellery, and a chiffon "tail". I rather enjoyed putting her together!

I've decided, that in order for this book to oneday be completed, that I need to commit to writing at least three A4 pages every week. There are approximately 44 weeks left in this year. That means that if I stick to my commitment, there are 132 more pages to write. That's 132 more pages of goodness, if you ask me! :)

Anyway, I wish to point out something about my shorter peices now. I've been very picky when it has come to sharing what I write. So many of my peices are very vulnerable and illuminate some of the darker times of my life. However, in being so raw and honest, they are some of the most poetic that I have written. So today is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship between this blog and my "past" so to speak. I want to share this side of myself with you- all in the name of good literature!

But you will notice that these peices reek of self-disgust and loathing. I would like to point out that it is merely an attempt to guide my way through my innermost thoughts and desires, unraveling them in wonder at how someone could think such dark thoughts. In the moment of writing, I allow my thoughts to come tumbling onto the page, I've no idea how they end up sounding so poetic, as I'm just being brutally honest with myself... afterall, I am my own worst critic. So, do not be alarmed that I am mentally unstable, or stuck in a whirlwind of self-pity, or stepping down the ladder into depression. I can safely vouch for my own sanity :) but I just wanted to allude to the facts of how and why my short peices of writing came into being.

Now that I think about it, I've been reading some of St. Augustine's "Confessions" recently and have noticed this self-disgust in his own writings. Perhaps I'm just being human. Anyway, a brilliant example of this is a peice I wrote in February last year:

The noise is fogging my thoughts.

Words escape me-

All I can do is stare.

Autopilot.

Mental riot.

My brain wrecks havoc.

This war I cannot bare.

Time passes and yet nothing changes-

The thoughts,

The feelings,

The pain.

It lingers, hiding amongst the cloud.

I'm nothing more than a fence sitter.

I don't even know how to surrender.

Where is the exit?

Where is the off switch?

How do I escape this hell that is mine?