Tuesday, April 8, 2014
I have found that words come easiest when I'm distraught. Sorrow and pain unblock the passages that lead from my mind to the page, but excitement and happiness are too frenetic and distracting to flow so easily into ink. I want to write, but in joy, I'd rather sing.
And so this song has been sitting wordless on my guitar strings and in my throat for the past week and a half as I try to calm my mind into a state conducive to thoughtful writing. Attempt after attempt, yet words do not come in streams, but as driftwood piece by piece slowly accumulating on an empty sheet only to be washed away again as I realize that I am collecting remnants of the wrong type of tree.
Structure and sense emerge only when the low, rhythmic droning of the surrounding world induces clarity through its meditative chanting, and even then as the scaffolding comes up, the words to hang on them fail to appear.
Line after line written and crossed out as I think, write and reread, then realize that the words are not making me feel anything. And then I wonder if the problem is in the writing or the reading. It's hard to connect with angst when you are content.