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Literature Text
Just as painters live for their artwork, poets live for theirs. But for a writer it is more so. For a writer, the writing will take on not only a life of their own, but a personality, a whole separate soul. A writer can converse with their pieces, argue with them... Feel jealous of them. Sometimes you might tell him his words are beautiful, and you'll see a shadow briefly cross his face before he responds with a 'thank you' and a smile, stretched too tight. Eventually, he'll become angry at his work. He'll stop writing; he'll tear up old notebooks in the hopes he can forget the words seemingly printed across the inside of his skull. He'll snap all his pens and pencils, so they can never damage someone's life as they have damaged his. He'll drink so the letters dance blurrily before his eyes, phrases drop off and lay forever incomplete in the dirt - so he never has to be the one to write them down.
All this, just because he knows he can never be as beautiful as the words he writes.
All this, just because he knows he can never be as beautiful as the words he writes.
This is written here because I needed to make a computer copy before I forget abuot it., and Word isn't working and I'm far oto drunk to remember where I put it tommorrow.' It will be rewritten and edited later. It's shit at the moment.
Edit: I have gone back and tried to change this, but other than the minor spelling errors I corrected, I can't bring myself to edit this, the rawest, roughest piece of work I have perhaps written down in recent years. I don't know... A whole load of romantic crap. These are the exact thoughts that were in my head when I wrote it - no editing, no censorship. In a few years I probably won't remember wiriting it, or thinking these thoughts. And what will have become of the person I was then? He will be dead. I can't destroy the aide memoire of his existence I will have, as imperfect and badly written as it may be.
Edit: I have gone back and tried to change this, but other than the minor spelling errors I corrected, I can't bring myself to edit this, the rawest, roughest piece of work I have perhaps written down in recent years. I don't know... A whole load of romantic crap. These are the exact thoughts that were in my head when I wrote it - no editing, no censorship. In a few years I probably won't remember wiriting it, or thinking these thoughts. And what will have become of the person I was then? He will be dead. I can't destroy the aide memoire of his existence I will have, as imperfect and badly written as it may be.
© 2010 - 2024 Tohroe
Comments12
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It has been my experience that often my writing will take on a life of its own and the characters dictate to me who they are and what they want. Interesting.
Thank you for submitting this piece to #the-thinkers
Thank you for submitting this piece to #the-thinkers