Spoken With Passion

I'm sure you've noticed my last two blogs being nothing more than Youtube links, in an effort to save myself the shame and embarrassment of not being able to find anything interesting to write about. lol - In fact, to anyone who'll listen, my usual conversation in chat is, "what can I possibly blog about?" - I'm hopelessly uninteresting and uninterested as of late.

I came across something I wrote a while back:

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You would not put pen to paper for me;

Yet I struggle with tool and scroll in an effort not merely to control the accuracy and flow of each descriptive symbol, but to hold back in kindness that which aches to be spoken into existence; that which yearns to be written.

An agenda is set. Not by the willfulness of yours truly. Even the universe itself as a whole, calling in all favors, sending forth an army of determined elements to combat the harsh and bring forth the right; calling upon each grain of sand, each shooting star for its ingrained symbol of hope and direction. None of these matters, for the agenda is set, and by whose hand lies with the realm of the irrelevant.
Strained, at best. Strained is the one word, the only word which in itself leaves a semi-peaceful taste in my mouth. Not because it is in any way satisfying or acceptable; but for the sole reason that it fits. It fits and does justice to that which I struggle to convey and that which you would deny.

Put on a stand, prodded for truth, hand on a double-edged sword, you would claim to all eyes watching that no such foot bridge exists between what was and what now is being. You would do this, while I called upon wing and flight to cross the width of the canyon that separates the now from perfection. In merely speaking words, you would manage only to convince the onlookers of thinness, flatness, resigned effort to right wrongs. In my actions, in my spanning the lost ground, tirelessly regaining what is now strained, what used to come so naturally, I urge them to believe in a perfection beyond what they see in the two people standing before them.

They will see what is acted upon; they will see a need to right what has turned wrong. They will stop the further destruction of what is strained. We will both be subjected to bitter clichés that in truth offer more than any punishment could hope to heal.

They will warn that Rome was not built in a day, and with that, they will harshly look from one to another and state that even though this is truth, what is also true, is that it can be destroyed in much less time than it took to build.
Take heed to this, they will say. And we promise that we will, but once we leave their courts, what then? We leave our promises on the other side of the door. Promised in sincerity; left in the same manner.

You can afford the luxury of time as your right-hand companion. Perhaps you shall never fully comprehend the fortune which time could not afford to buy. Persons. Things. These are those elements that are easily underestimated; undervalued. You may never go without. You may always reside within the blessed confines of wealth and free will. I would not deny you those. I would merely ask, if ever I gained favor in your presence, in your courts: Would you, could you ever possibly count me among them?

And that which I ask, would not be a question asked with an answer expected, anticipated. It would be, and is, a question that with time and the universe working for the good of the outcome, you may one day ponder instead of I.
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I wish that I could write like that again. I'm not saying that it's some great piece of literature or anything, but it was real and it was passionate. I was probably mad at someone at the time - most likely Benny. lol But it was angry and passionate and I felt every word, and even now as I read it again, it feels fiery and more like me than I've been in the last little while.

I feel domesticated or something. In the sense that you domesticate an animal. I find myself censoring my thoughts and feelings in an effort to be kinder, or to avoid conflict, I guess. But the truth is, I really don't know why I'm doing it. All the passion and purpose have gone out of my words because of it.

I used to be witty; side-splittingly hilarious, in fact. Now, I can't think of what to write about half the time, and the other half of the time, I've thought up a topic, but discard it immediately because I know that my present self can't do justice to it.

I know that the moral of the story is that I need to trust myself as a thoughtful person, to write an interesting blog. And most definitely, that I need to be writing more. Between my job and the many things that need to be done with regards to having a new house, I hardly get a chance to write anything decent; and when I do have the time, I just don't have the interest.

What I'm finding is that writing is something that stays with me, no matter what other changes I'm going through; writing is a constant. When I was little, I wrote little stories for my eyes only, and I played with barbies. When I got older, I wrote longer stories, and worried about my hair and make-up. Now, I write nothing, and go to work and care for my home. But it's always there, in the back of my mind, in a corner of my soul, that I should be writing. It's like a nagging feeling that this is who I am, and what I have to do. Some people, like Chris, for example, are just happy to go about their day and never feel the tug of pen and paper weighing them down. I wonder what it's like to never feel like you should be writing. For me, it's become a chore that I unhappily ignore and put on my 'to-do' list for the next day, and then the next. It's like when you know you have a mountain of dishes to be washing, but you go and watch TV for an hour, and all the while you're watching, you're thinking about the dishes and the notion that they have to be done before bedtime.

I've always said that the difference between me and a writer, is that writers write. I have the soul of a writer, if maybe not the refined skill. I think I will really only worry about the quality of my skill if I ever try to become published. Right now, what I write is raw and passionate - or, as I said, it used to be. And that's what I want to get back. The soul.

Recently, I entered a writing contest for Aboriginal Canadians. I wrote a piece that earned me fourth place in the contest, which I thought was excellent. Until they sent me the book that the stories were published in, and a note saying that mine didn't make the publication because I came in fourth, and only first, second and third places made the cut. It felt like cruel and unusual punishment. So, with sour grapes, I read the third place story and ripped it apart in my mind to make myself feel better. And of course it did at the time. But the story was good, and there's no denying that now. I realize now that I hadn't written my story with my usual passion. I wrote it for the first place $2,000 prize money that I'd hoped to have in time for my trip to England. Mistake number one. Unless you're a world-class writer, writing for prize money will make your entry very obviously passionless.

Anyway.

I've used up your time and a lot of words to simply say that I'm going to try to find the passion again.