W.riting

As I sit here listening to my iPod play on shuffle, I’ll do the one thing I’ve been wanting to do for a while. Write. Yeah, I know. Pretty silly. I mean, obviously, I’ve been writing a lot lately. However, I’ve been talking about events. Concrete, tangible things that anybody can write about. It doesn’t take any type of genious to regurgitate the facts of the day. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying that what I’m doing now is any more special. It’s just a better release for my thoughts, a way for my mind to come open and for me to truly see what’s going on inside that dark, dank cavern. No, I don’t have a story for you. My mind doesn’t work that way. I’ve tried stories; they’ve never worked out right. I can never end them. I have a problem with letting go. I attach myself to ideas, people, things…all sorts of matter; but I cannot let go. The only thing I can remember letting go of is my memories. Memories of my early childhood. I cannot remember much before I was say, eight or nine. Even middle school is a blur to me. I see the picture, but I must have messed up the shot ’cause the main focus is all smudged. This is nothing I meant to do. I would love to say, “I remember this day when I was five…” and have this cute little story. Unfortunately, I do not. Even my family thinks that it’s odd.

See how my thoughts wander? I start out talking about writing, and end up at memories. I’ve always liked the concept of memories. Faded memories, blending into the past. Old photographs slowly melting into merely a blob of colour, nothing left but what’s left in your head. Time passing slowly, flipping the pages in the book of your life. How long will your book last once it’s finished being written? Who’s hands will open it up and peruse the script? What will be written in your book?

I’m worried about my own. I’m afraid the pages will be too short. I’m afraid there will be nothing for the reader to grasp, no moral of the story. I’m afraid that my book will be one thrown out in the garbage after sitting on a shelf, untouched, for years and years. I’m afraid of being just a waste of paper.

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One thought on “W.riting

  1. lindsay, i love you.

    love should be a heart, but we know those don’t work here. =(

    i love your story, too.

    and remember, it’s not just about the book. it’s about the writer, too.

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