“And so, like so many clichés in life, Rory Jensen decides to drink on it. He allows himself to think, maybe for the first time in his life, and comes to the conclusion; or more appropriately, this myth, that he’s heard so many times before – that the truth shall set you free.”
This space of mine has become more and more private over the past few months, and this allows a certain freedom I barely give myself on the day-to-day; a freedom of total honesty. Thus;
In almost all the author’s relationships the question comes up, “Why do you love me?” A question whose response distinguishes whether the relationship is doom-bound or otherwise. More often then not, silence falls over them and earnest looks exchanged. Then a shared smile, both enjoying the moment of honesty. For the remaining 2 weeks.
On the screen plays a scene from The Words. Bradley Cooper. Writing.
The word writer is thrown around callously. “I’m a blogger, some call me a writer,” it has been said. Hemingway was a writer. Shakespeare was a writer. Chuck Palahniuk isn’t a writer, he has ideas, revolutionary sometimes, but he isn’t a writer. Phillip K. Dick is a writer. This blog isn’t a writer’s blog, thus even the doodles on here are nought but a child’s hand, untrained and wavering. The views expressed here, faltered and unexamined. The sentences, unstylistic and at best hopeful.
Days pass and he wonders about Saint every one of them. Yesterday he remembered a line scribbled in a book long ago, unforgotten even now, eight years later. Remembered the awe he felt seen them written by this writer, this unassuming and most exquisite of writers. Remembered how he marvelled at them and the poem built around them like a child’s fort is built to hoard that which is most precious. “Terrified… mortified… petrified… stupefied… by you.” Learnt all about those words, loved the movie, loved the memories and cherished them deeply.
That’s what they say, all good things come to an end. This was his best thing ever. His only thing. And now it is gone. And the world in its usual indifference goes on, uncaring that inside he has died.
“My tragedy was that I loved words more than I loved the woman who inspired me to write them.”And the sound of joy stings the heart And the smiles of friends rips one apart. The thought of moving on weighs down the soul. To have loved and lost and to love no more…
The choir inside sings glorious song When the clouds part casting sunly beams “The art of life is passing losses on.” But a heart can only bear so many seams.
- The Terror of the Blank Page (writingishardwork.com)
- Sometimes I Seriously Hate Writing. Can I Get A Little Help? (elephantjournal.com)
- Bad Choices, Evolving Voices (magnificentnose.com)
- Writer…Uninterrupted (4amwriter.com)