I've decided that writing is a Voldemortian experience, but the opposite. It's like, for me, creating horcruxes. As I go about the process, it's like splitting up my soul and injecting a bit of it into whatever I'm writing. But it doesn't kill. For me, it gives life. Honestly, it feels like the best use of my time, at any given time. I don't know what that means and it's not really the entire truth because it's not like it's my job or anything. But I do know that, for my whole life, I've often felt like I'm wasting time. Playing video games, reading, even sometimes when I'm doing what I'm "supposed" to be doing because it is my job..it just feels like I'm taking time away from something else...that sounds vague, I know, but I'm not sure how to describe it. It just feels like I'm meant to be doing something else, a lot of the time, no matter what I'm doing. It's a semi-fleeting feeling when it happens, but it's not altogether uncommon, especially when I'm doing truly useless things, like watching television.
But I'm doing well with my sort-of-a-new-year's-resolution to write more. When I find time, which is thankfully common enough, I spend time writing. I've got about 4 "projects" going right now and it's alright, very alright. When I'm writing I feel like I'm fulfilling a purpose inside of me that's always been there. I have no idea what that means for my life, but it's nice, just to have the deep desire or instability gone from my inner being. Part of me wonders if I didn't decide to come on staff, at least in part, because it fed my subconscious will's necessity to write. I don't know if or really think that I'll ever make a career of writing, especially because that normally means writing for the sake of a magazine, newspaper, or television event. I could do that, but I don't think it would satiate the monster I've managed to put to sleep this year. I just feel like I'm a better person when I'm regularly writing, even if that just means I'll have a bunch of practically useless word files containing stories and parts of stories on my computers for the rest of my life. I don't care, not in the slightest, because it's the only real way I've found that answers a deep question that, up to now, had been spoken in an internal language I couldn't consciously decipher. I honestly think it may have been a sort of personality sickness that has always been a threat. Since graduation, I don't know that I've been the person I was or could be at college...maybe it's incorrect, I'm still learning myself. But up until May 2009, I had to write on various occasions, for classes. When that left my life, I think a part of me left with it in a more horcruxial way than writing is now. For whatever reason, I have to express myself in writing to survive, I have to splinter my soul in some way and insert bits of it into text documents on my computer...it's just how I was made when I was knit together in my since estranged mother's womb.
-Zack
"At the start, he was there"
-David Crowder
No comments:
Post a Comment