this blog has become a joke, with some tiny thoughts that are particularly revealing only some of the time and that is not enough
I need to respect these keys that I press to form these imprudent pieces I dare call my writing.
I mean, really, I used to be good! No,I used to be great and I knew it, now I kind of just lost it. See? that there was just stupid, i mean, who just loses something like that? It still has to be there or it was just never there at all, right? I think that I have just not kept in touch with it. You know, it's kind of like high school and I, we are trying but we have just not kept in touch. I need to rekindle that intimacy (writing, not high school). Sometimes I get jealous of those people who have continued writing, I feel left behind. That's so incredibly idiotic and selfish though, because they continued to feed their talent, they take the time and effort to develop their passion. It has to be more than just innate. I mean innateness is part of the equation, of course, but there needs to be time development practice...success, failure, etc. It's that balance! I like reading this girl from school's pieces, Jayne. I mentioned to her that I used to write and she is always so encouraging, just judging by these blog entries. She encourages me to write and submit to her lit mag. She encourages me to apply to the school newspaper. And I mean, I should, right? I really should. I really really should. I really need to stop this shit about not being able to write, but I want to deliver, I want to be able to live up to what I consider my biggest passion. Poetic License, sir. I'm feeling better about many things, though. I'm staying optimistic. I abhor the holidays. I, of course, got nothing. All I really wanted was:
.a thesaurus
.a nice juicy black pen
.an English-Hebrew dictionary
.a piano
.moccasin booties
.a nice haircut
.a good spot to write
....and a muse.
(necesito un unicornio azul.)
Ojalá que las hojas no te toquen el cuerpo cuando caigan
para que no las puedas convertir en cristal.
Ojalá que la lluvia deje de ser milagro que baja por tu cuerpo.
Ojalá que la luna pueda salir sin ti.
Ojalá que la tierra no te bese los pasos.
Ojalá se te acabe la mirada constante,
la palabra precisa, la sonrisa perfecta.
Ojalá pase algo que te borre de pronto:
una luz cegadora, un disparo de nieve.
Ojalá por lo menos que me lleve la muerte,
para no verte tanto, para no verte siempre
en todos los segundos, en todas las visiones:
ojalá que no pueda tocarte ni en canciones
Ojalá que la aurora no de gritos que caigan en mi espalda.
Ojalá que tu nombre se le olvide a esa voz.
Ojalá las paredes no retengan tu ruido de camino cansado.
Ojalá que el deseo se vaya tras de ti,
a tu viejo gobierno de difuntos y flores.
Ojalá se te acabe la mirada constante,
la palabra precisa, la sonrisa perfecta.
Ojalá pase algo que te borre de pronto:
una luz cegadora, un disparo de nieve.
Ojalá por lo menos que me lleve la muerte,
para no verte tanto, para no verte siempre
en todos los segundos, en todas las visiones:
ojalá que no pueda tocarte ni en canciones
Ojalá pase algo que te borre de pronto:
una luz cegadora, un disparo de nieve.
Ojalá por lo menos que me lleve la muerte,
para no verte tanto, para no verte siempre
en todos los segundos, en todas las visiones:
ojalá que no pueda tocarte ni en canciones
sorry, it's still The Beatles.
-melidee
