Two things frustrate me entirely about the writing process. Even as I make that statement the list suddenly expands in my mind, but because I'm not in the habit of complaining to people on the internet I will stick to my original number. One of these is writing the first sentence. In high-school they used to teach us all sorts of tactics for conceptualizing a paper in its entirety before wasting precious carbon tape from the antiquidated typewriters. Yet after all the web charts, outlining, and wanton reduction of young enthusiam into predetermined formats named after women we'll never meet nor hear of again, I still find myself staring into white space hovering from key to key. Presumably these words will be trapped to paper for eternity; should you not introduce your carefully crafted stream of thought with a statement that adequately represents the genius you've put forth? Inexorably, this desire will lead you to open your paper with baseless truisms, overarching generalizations, or shitty clichs. I spend a lot of time writing first sentences.
The other, more frustrating componant, is writers block. The singer of the Goo Goo Dolls summarized this condition most effectively, "When you have writer's block, its not that you don't write anything; it's that you think everything that you writes sucks." Such thoughts are particularly dangerous in an age where Select All and the backspace key threaten to obliterate hours of work. I spend a lot of time rewriting.
*I would imagine that their eventually collision with the ground was nothing short of unimpressive, even pedestrian. Regardless, there were only a few remaining by the time they left my hand, no more than seven or eight having survived the week hidden in my bathroom. But now they were gone forever; although in my experience forever seems incapable of lasting much longer than about a year. Having isolated myself from the last of my pain killers, I tacitly attempted a sigh of release. But instead relaxation came the first wave of my last high. The world slipped to a soft focus as I listen to the road noise through reverberant tunnels of undying distortion. Sifting through the glove compartment I retrieved a pair of sunglasses to hide my glassy expression.
"What were those?"
More than anything at this point I run the risk of sounding overdramatic. TV series have been made about moments like these, when the camera crew rushes in behind families and friends demanding sobreity and offering forgiveness and love. The latter had already been promised to me in spades, all parties involved displaying a depth of affection truly wrought from the heart. And while some struck me so deep as to widen my eyes, other's overtures fell on stoned eyes and a tattered mind, confusion about the subject matter dominating an otherwise placid mind.
Three times I've taken the 'first step' on the road to being 'clean'. I've found that many people's view of this road is over romanticised and often focuses on the light at the end of the woods, and not the ever encroaching ivy on the sides of the road. Not the sound of the night in an unfamiliar place, not the inexplicable crunch of leaves and sticks, not the rotting carcasses, not the fear that envelops you as you break into a sprint down this pathway. God, how fast your feet carry you; look over your shoulder trying to find the bleeding red eyes and claws that dig into to drag you back. Denied the sight of your captor, the shadows become your enemy, the sunset a sick feeling of loss and the following sunrise existing only to remind you that another darkness approaches.
Running, running, always running. You can hear the voices calling from the other side so close; break through that final door to find the same room you just left. Why can't I ever quit? Because this is life on shuffle and repeat; simply coming full circle again to the same room, the same family, the same friends, the same situation, that same sadness that helped you unscrew the bottle in the first place, and that same chair you sat in as you titled you head back and placed the little white escape ladders on your tongue one by one...*
Goodnight.
The other, more frustrating componant, is writers block. The singer of the Goo Goo Dolls summarized this condition most effectively, "When you have writer's block, its not that you don't write anything; it's that you think everything that you writes sucks." Such thoughts are particularly dangerous in an age where Select All and the backspace key threaten to obliterate hours of work. I spend a lot of time rewriting.
*I would imagine that their eventually collision with the ground was nothing short of unimpressive, even pedestrian. Regardless, there were only a few remaining by the time they left my hand, no more than seven or eight having survived the week hidden in my bathroom. But now they were gone forever; although in my experience forever seems incapable of lasting much longer than about a year. Having isolated myself from the last of my pain killers, I tacitly attempted a sigh of release. But instead relaxation came the first wave of my last high. The world slipped to a soft focus as I listen to the road noise through reverberant tunnels of undying distortion. Sifting through the glove compartment I retrieved a pair of sunglasses to hide my glassy expression.
"What were those?"
More than anything at this point I run the risk of sounding overdramatic. TV series have been made about moments like these, when the camera crew rushes in behind families and friends demanding sobreity and offering forgiveness and love. The latter had already been promised to me in spades, all parties involved displaying a depth of affection truly wrought from the heart. And while some struck me so deep as to widen my eyes, other's overtures fell on stoned eyes and a tattered mind, confusion about the subject matter dominating an otherwise placid mind.
Three times I've taken the 'first step' on the road to being 'clean'. I've found that many people's view of this road is over romanticised and often focuses on the light at the end of the woods, and not the ever encroaching ivy on the sides of the road. Not the sound of the night in an unfamiliar place, not the inexplicable crunch of leaves and sticks, not the rotting carcasses, not the fear that envelops you as you break into a sprint down this pathway. God, how fast your feet carry you; look over your shoulder trying to find the bleeding red eyes and claws that dig into to drag you back. Denied the sight of your captor, the shadows become your enemy, the sunset a sick feeling of loss and the following sunrise existing only to remind you that another darkness approaches.
Running, running, always running. You can hear the voices calling from the other side so close; break through that final door to find the same room you just left. Why can't I ever quit? Because this is life on shuffle and repeat; simply coming full circle again to the same room, the same family, the same friends, the same situation, that same sadness that helped you unscrew the bottle in the first place, and that same chair you sat in as you titled you head back and placed the little white escape ladders on your tongue one by one...*
Goodnight.