A few words on writing.
If you want to define something, anything you wish, where do you truly begin? do you reach into the dead-space at the end of a train of thought? When all is exhausted, all you have is that lump of creative coal huddled there in the dark recesses, or do you trudge into the known? Is the answer there for you as soon as you ask it? As if imagination took its leave and left you with nothing but bold response.
Ive taken my time with each of these responses: trudged my way opened mouthed sputtering words from blackness, with spittle-shot sentences that lack any sense and direction flying into an open page ; poetry. I've also played around shortly with logical responses, my time however is varied, bordem sets in with quaking thunder, leads to computer games and sex(don't get me wrong I love both of these), leaving my creative mind huddled in recession, waiting again for those 3-6am nights where I stammer smash words onto keyboards. depression is my acquainted, almost required friend, the kind that at first you could not stand, but grew to love in a way, found out a way for you two to get along share some things in common ; write. Though understanding fully that there is a life-style that is better suited for me: academic, athletic, knowledge sharing, friends, girlfriends, family with insight, girlfriends... this all however eventually leads me to the same path; me alone at my computer writing what comes to mind, in the seconds of past mentioned dead-space. These moments are fleeting, like a breath of air, they come in as one idea, out as another, and when you try to breath the same way twice ; you cough. The filter taken off; the breaths ragged, the words non-sensical, rugged, bloody, raw, the emotion taking it's time to bounce off the skull and leave you dazed. I've woke up some mornings and looked over my work, when I witness something ragged and un-kept on the page, I can't help but think of a hangover, the parallels hanging there in the air, not to mention the sleep deprivation a grinning idol. Yet somehow this brings satisfaction, as if by staying up till 5am and starting my writing till around 3am and eventually just blurting out none-sense, as if that is what I really wanted to accomplish. Yes Tyler your weed stained 5am sleep deprived brain must be banging on all cylinders? Yet if seated there in the middle of the day, coffee running through my system, brain jogged by colleagues all around me, questions flying, people demanding retorts, academics in full throttle. I'll probably be asleep, or head in my arms trying to get comfortable and ignore the procession. I don't think it is an act of selfish behavior, but like a lot of people, I know my conversations come out of genuine interest, and these topics cannot be forced at textbook range, they have to be gently cradled into situational tense. For example: me, my friend Tyler Nesgaard and my step brother David McDonald often engage in conversations that both open and extend my way of thinking, however these discussions are limited greatly by our moods, if we can all join on the same level at rare occasions, it is remarkable the intelligence seems almost tangible. However if any of us are down emotionally and not in the mood, it just wont happen. So in a classroom this sort of behavior leaves me doomed. Since the occasions of these mind altering conversations are rare with people I know very well , it's even less likely with a stranger, not to say it doesn't ever happen.
So I guess writing for me is something that on a personal level I can use to force one of these moods into existence, though much more solitary than the before mentioned style of opening the mind and moving forward, Though there is no back and forth conversation, I've learned to extract and learn from myself, dig through memories, books, imagination anything that will let me fuel the flame of creation. The result for me can be anything miscellaneous to profound, as long as there is a result.
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Originally Posted by YW1990
