Monday, December 29, 2008

Mind's Eye

Why does one write, when one writes? Who knows? I have no answers to my own whims and fancies concerning penning down my thoughts. Things sometimes seem important enough to write about and then sometimes things are too important to write about. I am trying to find a way of expressing myself without laying myself bare to the world. I want to be able to communicate my fears and anxieties without seeming either fearful or anxious. I wish to hide myself and let myself be known. I wish to find a razor thin edge of sanity among a maze of contradictions.

The only thing that keeps bringing me back here and keeps making me send my blog link to everyone is my desire to write. I don't think it has anything to do at all with expressing myself, making myself heard or known (at least not too much of that). It's about this overwhelming need to put thoughts down into words. See them form sentences that roll off the tongue and inspire thoughts. A lot of my writing is pure vanity. I don't think that is any great revelation, and I am in no way repelled by that thought (you might be). But yes, for me prose needs not just to be substantial but beautiful. It needs to be lyrical. Sometimes utter nonsense can seem so magical. The beauty lies in the structure of the prose. In its form, in the grace of its flow, in the atmosphere it creates. The words may not inform you of anything new and wondrous and yet the best prose is that that makes the old and tired wondrous by the very act of stating it.

Writing is a very personal experience. I am always in awe of people who can open themselves to the world with such abandon. I periodically get scared of these thoughts and withdraw from expressing myself through the one medium I can manage. I not only want to write, I was meant to write. My voice is not my vehicle of choice. I cannot make myself heard over a crowd. When I draw or paint, I can never convey exactly what I mean to. The beautiful drawing so fully formed within my brain, with such beautiful colors, with such poignant figures, can never be communicated to the world through my hands. My art is for my mind's eye alone. I am no athelete. My body has no perfection which it can convey through movement. I cannot take anyone's breath away by a display of grace. What remains are words.

They are my only and constant companions. I devour them each day by the thousands. I create them each day, renew them from old origins and mould them to become mine. I train them to be all my eyes, hands and body can never be. I use them to cast the reader's mind into a state that is all new and all mine. Do I succeed? Success is irrelevant. I am no famous author. I do not have any obligations to entertain or inform. I have no bars I need to reach. No finish lines to cross, no deadlines to meet. I am in my way free. Free to write what I want to. Free to be.

Do I envy success? Hell yes. Do I want to be as famous as the famous? Hell yes. But right now. With what I have, I am happy. I am happy to be able to do at least what I can. I need not be agreed with. I need not be annoyed with. I just get to be me. I try to make my prose all I think it needs to be. I try. That's the best I can do or say.

1 comment:

Unsettler of Catan said...

Indeed! I guess for some it is easier to lay bare themselves for the sake of creating an interesting read. Unlike you however, I have fought that part of me and given up writing completely. It is nice to know that for something so unimportant, you create a piece that is beautifully written, touching so many keen observations with the use of lucid language. I am leaving such a long comment simply because this is the only time I write online these days. the shorter version of this is 'Lovely!'