From Foxtrot 1/19th Date Thursday, April 25, 2024 - 10:36 AM PST Topic Theories The blank page stares back at you daringly, or perhaps the empty word document, cajoling, tempting, pushing you for the stain of thought. Goading, and taunting, waiting for your words as that hot woman in the night. You start tremulously, all the fear of misstep rising in you as an embarassed boy stepping out into manhood for the first time, afraid your scribbles are meaningless, those raps, poems, diaries, prose, or other random outbursts of literary aspiration will mar that supine thing the page is, supplicant below your disastrously clumsy fingers. You fear making her an ugly thing, rather than complimenting that blankness., now. Just like life, however, you must at least try to fill her with that lust that seizes you in those moments, and your passion must overflow, and continue to brim up over the rim of cool-headedness and debonair demeanor. You must fill her, or be left with something empty to many years down the road that cannot be filled when the breath of youth has fled. Now you write, and write to fill, sometimes pausing to breath, to seperate the train wreck of thought piling behind those too slow fingers or flow of ink. Check your word count or space those paragraphs correctly, sentences piling and backing up the page like a lyric of Homer. Other times you drone onward, no heed to those conventions and laws of art; you are art, and so liberties are your own to take. The passion consumes and scalds, burning at the fingers to escape on to the page, fire lit by the dwindling of ink or the rythmic tapping of the keys behind those headphones of drowning music. Thoughts becoming immortalized in pure language; that stalwart, clean thing upon those clean white sheets that will tan with age and only gain the elegance that humanity wishes it became an old thing with. The molasses of blue or black catching those fiery emotions, turning the colors over and making something so simplistic and induspitutable to your own readings. Keep writing. Keep on pushing out the words that mean so much, the words that are brimming and need to be written. They call to you, these thoughts, these immortal things that you know have been thought before by countless others, yet never an utterance of their existence spoken; no words granted these feelings, these things of elegance and depth that you see reflected in the eyes of lovers, friends, and philosophers. Keep writing because it eats up those late night times when brainrot is unattractive and it brings back the good times and the bad times and the crying times and all the times together. It brings back all those things that should be remembered, all those precious things that make you realize how every second of every day is one second less you have to live, and though you have a lot more you're one second closer to appreciating the world all the more. Keep writing, because you might forget otherwise. Wrsists stiffen and tense, soreness building as more ink is wrought upon the canvas, brought to those forms of letters, translating conscious thought sometimes more articulately than can be spoken. Stop. Pause. Breath. Drink. Breath. Break. No, the words are still burning, stockpiling, demanding to be written while you sit in idleness trying to collect that physical slack and motion, as if another creature prods at your back, pushing to escape. Once loyal hands fail, tiring, this frail organic thing now chaining sweet, free inspiration - the muse of times angry, her words flee you as more of them enter the mind, some sentences becoming disconnected, incomplete, and erroneous; the paragraph becomes sluggish when you regain the words. Borijng. Windy. Contrived. And then she is gone, that sweet muse, leaving you to finish this thing that you are not entirely sure is yours. You begin to dissect it, each movement and criticism as sharp as the surgeon's true cut, for you know yourself best, and iniquity blares out from each phrase now. Your own worst editor, the entire paper evidence against any skill you might have at this game of words. Unfinished. You go back a month or a week or a year or a day later and ask yourself what you were thinking, what the point was to this labor, and what made you stop. I have stained this page enough. There must be other real work to do This article comes from Shmeng http://www.shmeng.com/ The URL for this story is: http://www.shmeng.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=728