“Writing is easy. All you have to do is sit at a typewriter and bleed.”
Like so many times before, I sit facing a blank screen. The potential is overwhelming and I have to scream the notion away that I can’t do this. How do you make some thoughts louder than others?
Creation is agony. Whoever said empty canvasses were beautiful? Who said inventing poetry was simple? I want to tear at the whiteness, bury it in the ground. Maybe then it will not burn my eyes.
I’m afraid to start, because I know once I have something on paper it is a part of me, apart from me. My body, my mind, my spirit can no longer protect it after releasing it, but oh, I ache to. “Backspace” and “delete” do not exist. How could I stand building for an hour and eradicating in a second? It is with words as it is with life: it is so much easier to destroy than to bring life.
Ah, the words. I’ve always held them so close. Admired them even, in all the forms they take. But the older I get, the more I realize I can’t give them so much power. It’s dangerous writing history, but more often than not I wonder if history will overwrite me.