now i really must persist. or desist in the stalling anyway. every day i gather thoughts that roll through my head like determined tumbleweeds. they never escape my notice. i catch glimpses out of my periphery of my mind in constant motion. i see the world around me and words gather and assemble to create a picture in a way i hope explains every little thing i witness. it is a compulsion of sorts. in my head there are a multitude of images; an accumulation of the mundane, ordinary and incredible that has passed before my eyes. the imagery strikes me somehow and forces itself to the forefront of my mind to be surrendered into some kind of prose.
it is my art, and it never sleeps. it is what keeps me up at night. it arrives in many forms, a letter of complaint, a feeling unsaid, that wistful wonderment i get when i see that man who diligently circles the park across the street, every day. all those knots and tangles are in there, crowding each other, jostling for my attention. when i am in motion the idle machine leaps into action and every bit of
writing i've been meaning to craft suddenly leaps up into my
consciousness and i am painstakingly reworking the words to transmit my
contemplations. i run my fingers over the textures of descriptions, marvelling at the
textures of rough and smooth of discourse. my eyes are fastidiously
determining which pigments of language will render these musings alive
and articulate; and how intense their shades should be. they take on
all sorts of forms. in some cases the image is entirely created out of
my internal dialogue. it could be a movie i have seen that has left a
footprint on my memory. but, by the time i arrive at my computer i am weary already
from the exertion, and nothing gets done.
sometimes i think that people will think me odd. these impressions that i get. there's one, that notion of how, when i am in a train and a melancholy song comes on my iPod, i sometimes feel removed entirely from my current reality, my life entirely and placed inside a movie of someone else's making. like i said, it's odd. perhaps it comes from my childhood days of escaping into novels as a way of coping with chronic abuse and everyday horror.
and even though i am not "there" now, and i am unable to entirely relate or cope inside my own life as i currently know it, i still have that burning desire to tell every story as eloquently as ever. but often i am at a loss as to how to begin--or more likely-- finish them. then, i am reminded by something as mundane as a small debit from my credit card, that after all, that is why this thing exists.
