It may not seem it, but it is a struggle to cut my wrists and spill out everything inside of me with one magical post. Writing isn’t alien to me, as much as the mood I need to be in - to be capable of writing. I know it when it strikes me, my focus narrows in and the words tumble over themselves to make it to the page (or screen). I often write so quickly in those moods that I miss full phrases I meant to impart and I backspace to accommodate my large fingers, the tiny keys - and the resulting mistakes I make.
Silence, yes, silence helps because it allows the voice in my head to bloom and speak louder than any other influence. Perhaps it’s that my world hasn’t been silent of late. Perhaps it is that reason, that one thing that I can point to as my exclamation, my reason. It would be a lie.
I’ve been hiding my writing. I hide it because I hate the speculation it would engender.
‘Who does he mean?’ Who indeed. The beauty of writing is that sometimes it is a purely speculative piece. Sometimes the ‘you’ is based on many and not one, and sometimes knowing that one piece biases you to the message contained within. Sometimes it gives you a power you shouldn’t own.
Yes, knowing those things gives you depth that you may crave, especially from one so reserved about damn near everything as I am. I think, however, sometimes self-denial is the best route to take. Sometimes making the choice not to muck into the depths of a mystery is not a choice made from fear, but from wisdom.
‘What does it mean?’ Whatever you want to to mean. What meaning I assign it will always be different from yours. This is no quiz, with one right answer and a million wrong ones. It’s written art, always appreciated by a certain crowd, and always seen with their bias, with their lives and their jaded eyes. What does it mean to you?
My take on slavery and the doormat girlfriend/wife is known to you if you’ve read back any distance. It just isn’t for me, because my opinion should never always be a match for yours. I like the potential for a heated argument, and I also don’t believe that opinion you hold should be silenced because it doesn’t support mine.
I don’t know what it all means, but I’ve been hiding my writing.
Even from you.
and you.
and you.
Comments
Whatever you want -it- to mean.
Build your walls as high as you like — you know how to climb them. Hiding within words is just as easy as hiding behind their absence. I’ll read, just as I always have; and wait it out, when you hide.
[…] Daemon said: […]
When the words flow it is bliss. I think you may be correct that silence is required, not the lack of sounds around but to silence the clamour of petty concerns and worries.
“The beauty of writing is that sometimes it is a purely speculative piece…Sometimes it gives you a power you shouldn’t own…‘What does it mean?’ Whatever you want to to mean.”
Yes! Such is the very essence of all creative writing. This should go up on a billboard or something.
Once another pair of eyes reads your words, they are no longer yours: you no longer control the meaning that they may or may not convey. The most ridiculous thing a reader can do (at least in my opinion) is to ask the writer to explain the “meaning” of a story/creative piece. Does this not in fact defeat the entire purpose of art–to allow the piece, in its final form, to speak for itself? To truly appreciate a piece of creative writing, (to truly reveal its “deeper meaning”) one must accept that fact that sometimes, the mystery IS the vehicle.
It’s what the Cuban writer Renaldo Arenas meant when he said, “all writing points beyond earthly bounds.”
You write because you need to express, not to entertain or inform an audience. This is the reason I read you and have done for some years now…. albeit essentially voyeuristically.
I wait patiently (mostly…smile) for the words that drip from your psyche. They are the lifeblood, the complement to the depths of my own psyche which I am reticent to express in such a public manner. My own do get expressed but in a journal which is an eternity long and with an audience of one.
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