Aspiringanonymous
December 11th, 2009, 09:40 PM
Vocabulary, knowledge, inspiration... emotion.
Vital skills of every writer.
And how come, you say, I am unable to write? However can one write when all that ever appears in their mind is a vast threshold of blankness within, and a visual image of one accurately representable piece of white paper?
If eyes are a window to the soul, then writing is a door to the mind.
These doors for me, are tightly shut at all times, unless circumstances require otherwise.
When they do open, all one can see is organized shelves of concrete, factual information. Like a non-fiction library, with its walls painted light-grey, and the books lined up neatly like they've never once been touched.
Yet, sometimes, a keen visitor would discover a few books that were.. misplaced, perhaps. Hidden carefully among rows of identically brown-coloured covers, it takes truly a pair of sharp eyes, and perhaps the librarian's own carelessness as well, for such an unwanted accident to occur.
For one's thoughts and mind, are what make up that person inside the cover of hypocrisy we call 'appearance'. The outside can be packaged into various forms, the limitations to this vary little from one individual to the other; yet the inside composition is of a completely different nature, one that cannot be altered simply, one that speaks the truth about its owner.
And this very 'library of truth', you see, once was a display of shameful and ugly secrets.
One day, the librarian found the long-anticipated formula to change all of that.
Book by book slowly fell into disintegration; the vivid emotions that had been like a shadow, lurking and eating away at him from within, diminished to dust, and then were nothing more. Soon, new bindings illustrating the crammed-in facts taken off school textbooks and research projects replaced the temporary emptiness of those shelves.
Evidence of the past, however, had not been completely erased.
In those moments of guaranteed solitude and silence, he would dig out these remains of yesterday, read, and remember.
And pick up the pen once more, to write, in hopes that a time will come when the new works - a continuation of the past he had once attempted to abandon - may be discovered by a kind soul, whom would read with patience from cover to cover, and offer to help redecorate the room and books into the most beautiful sanctuary one could ever imagine.
I wrote this when I was thirteen (the original, with a few slight changes in grammar and word usage). The very first time I discovered my capacity for abstract and metaphorical self-expression, quite accidentally while wasting away in front of the computer.
It never fails to impress, as I look back on it years into the future.
Vital skills of every writer.
And how come, you say, I am unable to write? However can one write when all that ever appears in their mind is a vast threshold of blankness within, and a visual image of one accurately representable piece of white paper?
If eyes are a window to the soul, then writing is a door to the mind.
These doors for me, are tightly shut at all times, unless circumstances require otherwise.
When they do open, all one can see is organized shelves of concrete, factual information. Like a non-fiction library, with its walls painted light-grey, and the books lined up neatly like they've never once been touched.
Yet, sometimes, a keen visitor would discover a few books that were.. misplaced, perhaps. Hidden carefully among rows of identically brown-coloured covers, it takes truly a pair of sharp eyes, and perhaps the librarian's own carelessness as well, for such an unwanted accident to occur.
For one's thoughts and mind, are what make up that person inside the cover of hypocrisy we call 'appearance'. The outside can be packaged into various forms, the limitations to this vary little from one individual to the other; yet the inside composition is of a completely different nature, one that cannot be altered simply, one that speaks the truth about its owner.
And this very 'library of truth', you see, once was a display of shameful and ugly secrets.
One day, the librarian found the long-anticipated formula to change all of that.
Book by book slowly fell into disintegration; the vivid emotions that had been like a shadow, lurking and eating away at him from within, diminished to dust, and then were nothing more. Soon, new bindings illustrating the crammed-in facts taken off school textbooks and research projects replaced the temporary emptiness of those shelves.
Evidence of the past, however, had not been completely erased.
In those moments of guaranteed solitude and silence, he would dig out these remains of yesterday, read, and remember.
And pick up the pen once more, to write, in hopes that a time will come when the new works - a continuation of the past he had once attempted to abandon - may be discovered by a kind soul, whom would read with patience from cover to cover, and offer to help redecorate the room and books into the most beautiful sanctuary one could ever imagine.
I wrote this when I was thirteen (the original, with a few slight changes in grammar and word usage). The very first time I discovered my capacity for abstract and metaphorical self-expression, quite accidentally while wasting away in front of the computer.
It never fails to impress, as I look back on it years into the future.