Mar 2014
The peaceful passing of my soul in silence is what this moment appears to be.Beneath my skin unravels a tale much the opposite.
There the silence is perforated by the echo of my hopelessness.
I am confronted by the possibility that I am losing it.
Not my sanity (though perhaps that is a subject for a different passage).That I am losing my talent.That I am losing my muse.
That the habit upon which i construct nearly my entire identity now threatens evanescence. And here I am, only halfway convinced that these keystrokes are self refuting.They are not devoid of talent. But they do not come in the same feverish manner.
They do not come in unbridled passion
They are beforehand constructed.
They are not solid images or stories, but some vague outlines of more vague impressions.
They are not paintings of the broad colorful strokes of emotions
They feel almost - not quite- cold.
And they feel calculated.
Perhaps i have been guilty of overanalyzation
It is likely.
But also, I am keenly aware that my creation is much more an act of choice these days.
It is much more an act of choice than spontaneity.
I am not taken with the wind, or the trees.
My soul does not overflow, it simply bubbles uneventfully.
I find that when i look for inspiration, it is not there.
I find that I can write about everything equally and subjectively.
I have beliefs, I have passions, yes,but somehow they do not control me.
And I am so used to being controlled.
I have before thought that there was freedom there, or more accuately, i have felt it.
And still that emotion underlies the thoughts that i now have.
It feels as if i am devoid of what i have before held deeply central to my talent as a poet.
But perhaps, this is simply a new era.
It has long been argued and discussed what sort of poetry has value, what sort of poetry is poetry - and i would posit that the answer is all of it.
There is value in the vivid pictures of emotions.
And there is value in the eloquent preservation of the facts of a situation.
Everything between on the vivid spectrum, may in some way be classified as poetry,
and is in some way inherently valuable.
I am not free.
But Neither am I bound.
This is why I am without direction.
There the silence is perforated by the echo of my hopelessness.
I am confronted by the possibility that I am losing it.
Not my sanity (though perhaps that is a subject for a different passage).That I am losing my talent.That I am losing my muse.
That the habit upon which i construct nearly my entire identity now threatens evanescence. And here I am, only halfway convinced that these keystrokes are self refuting.They are not devoid of talent. But they do not come in the same feverish manner.
They do not come in unbridled passion
They are beforehand constructed.
They are not solid images or stories, but some vague outlines of more vague impressions.
They are not paintings of the broad colorful strokes of emotions
They feel almost - not quite- cold.
And they feel calculated.
Perhaps i have been guilty of overanalyzation
It is likely.
But also, I am keenly aware that my creation is much more an act of choice these days.
It is much more an act of choice than spontaneity.
I am not taken with the wind, or the trees.
My soul does not overflow, it simply bubbles uneventfully.
I find that when i look for inspiration, it is not there.
I find that I can write about everything equally and subjectively.
I have beliefs, I have passions, yes,but somehow they do not control me.
And I am so used to being controlled.
I have before thought that there was freedom there, or more accuately, i have felt it.
And still that emotion underlies the thoughts that i now have.
It feels as if i am devoid of what i have before held deeply central to my talent as a poet.
But perhaps, this is simply a new era.
It has long been argued and discussed what sort of poetry has value, what sort of poetry is poetry - and i would posit that the answer is all of it.
There is value in the vivid pictures of emotions.
And there is value in the eloquent preservation of the facts of a situation.
Everything between on the vivid spectrum, may in some way be classified as poetry,
and is in some way inherently valuable.
I am not free.
But Neither am I bound.
This is why I am without direction.
