melancholia

ah...writing.

during registration, break, lunch, inbetween teacher talking time in lessons, after school, every night, revision, in coffee shops, on buses, in cars, on trains, left deliberately on trains (oh the artisan), waiting for people, holding people up....writing.

i produced five full A4 books of writing in the space of two years. not to mention the endless half filled notebooks i have that are riddled with words, doodles, lists and short stories- in no format or form of editing.

the amount of times people pointed out ink on my mouth.

so much zest, passion, opinion! some rhymed, some broken, random, rude. depressed, delirious, playful, ridiculous, some as small as could be- and some two full pages without punctuation.

and then, then love. love dried it all up. too much focus elsewhere- the angst disappeared of course. i have not studied poetry of contentment- and joy seems so fake when it isn't your own. so i haven't written. beyond the odd twenty lined piece of anger or sadness, wooden and drunk spillings of a biro pen.

but now.... now i feel it creeping back in. my mind is chasing rhymes during adverts, making a mockery of the marketing i pass everyday, jaunty limericks, quotes and phrases: word games and made up songs. old clogged up coping mechanisms for the last time life left me swimming alone.

and so...