Somehow I feel forced by the noise in my head.

I wonder sometimes if I am totally alone…

Wait, is that too depressing of a start?

Ok, I’ll start again.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one in the whole freaking universe who is absolutely driven insane by the things inside my head until I write them down.

Better?

Ok, I guess not, but at least it was more dramatic. If there is one thing I’ve learned in life it’s that drama makes things interesting. Not always good, but interesting.

I started out this blog thinking I would write a back story to everything I post. I then realized I don’t always have a back story so much as I have a burst of something, or an idea if that’s what you want to call it. And generally I can’t keep my head straight until I focus on that idea and get something down in ink.

For this poem it was just a single line that got me typing away. It didn’t actually end up in the poem so I’m going to write it here, “The need to be creative wreaks havoc on the soul.”

Yes. I know. That’s a little dark. If you haven’t noticed, I like dark. And dramatic. That’s just the way I roll.

After that line cleared away my ability to focus, I was sitting up late thinking about how I write. And why I just always do it. So that line came up and then there was five minutes of arranging words and fixing punctuation. Now here’s something that after five days of procrastination seems like a good thing to post.

Here you go!

The Need.

When once a man sat to write, to draw, to make a tale have wings and fly

Began a need in all.

A tale no more.

No, now a life,

A story of one or many or nothing.

The inception of imagination.

The need to be creative.

 

Words that endure…

“Just keep swimming.” – Dory from Disney Pixar’s  Finding Nemo

So week two of blogging and the week is almost done, of course I’ve yet to get on with my posts. So The words that I’ve decided to reflect upon are simple enough for children. Mainly because they were intended for children; yet some how through everything that I’ve been through those three simple words are, to me at least, life saving. Properly then, for now I leave you with the words that a writer put in the mouth of a beautifully, simple, lovable blue fish.

That ache in my gut because I have a mirror glued to my face.

Do you ever get so sick of life you just want to puke?

I get to that kind of sick every four or five minutes of everyday. Mostly because I don’t wan’t anyone to know me.  So I hide. I use what everyone else sees in me and everything they “know” about me as my mask.

It’s easy really. I just fake it most of the time and the rest of the time I spend writing. I keep things in and then just release them through words. No else gets to read those words but me. Thus, no one really knows me well and I like it that way. And that’s why blogging is hard and scary and gives me that sick feeling in my gut.

I can’t wrap my head around why I am willingly putting myself, my actual self, out there by putting my writing in a public arena. I am “bearing it all” so to say and I’m a scaring myself shitless… And since that sick feeling I get has stuck all day today I have decided to post the kind of short story thing I wrote about hiding. It was inspired by the movie “MirrorMask,” and a quote from ” Shooting An Elephant”, which is an essay by Goerge Orwell. (“He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it.”) The combination of the movie being one of my favourites, reading the essay, and then my 12th grade English teacher giving the above quote as writing prompt sparked this little piece of work.

(BTW!!!! I suggest you give the movie a watch and read the essay, put them in the same train of thought and let your imagination fly.)

Link to the essay: http://www.online-literature.com/orwell/887/

Link to “MirrorMask” IMDb page: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0366780/

Now here’s what my imagination flew back to me with.

“A Broken Mirror Behind Stone”

Conceal it. Hide it. That is all that can be done. Use anything. A mirror, a mask. It’s broken, but it will work…

Everything went wrong. Horribly wrong and horrendously depressing. It was all good before, even happy, so much so that you could have called it bliss. Now the shattered remains of a vase that held everything – a family, joy, a life, bliss – lay scattered on the ground.

A girl fell too, with the vase that held everything – her family, her joy, her life, her bliss – and she too was broken. All she had once known was now around her in pieces. And it was now wrong, it was now so sad.

Soon, those pieces were picked up, and the girl with them. By then she had learned how to hold the pieces together. She had learned to hide behind a reflection, one of what once was, that now became a mask. Behind that reflection the girl was morphing into nothing. She was becoming as shallow and sorrowful as her mask.

The mirror – for it was a mirror, her mask –  was broken, like the girl. The pieces it was made out of were her memories, the pieces of what was once her’s, what was once good. Each crack a memory, good the same as bad; wounds in the girl as fresh as the day they were cut. Wounds that were supposed to heal as time passed, instead they only grew deeper. The cracks spread further along the mirror. This her only refuge.

So around this refuge she built walls of stone. The stone rose higher with each day. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing except her mask and her walls.

The once bright, pure thing – the girl – was dying at a creeping pace. She was becoming the reflection that stood in the stead of  her true self. The reflection kept back her honest expressions and emotions. The stone began to numb any feelings. The mirror showed only what she allowed it to. The longer she hid the more the reflection seemed like a reality. The lie began to keep the girl as alive as she had kept it. The world around her seeing only the mask.

The mirror, the cracks, the walls, slowly became her world. The feelings numbed and took everything away, leaving only a broken mirror behind stone. The girl now as shallow and sorrowful as her mask.

Nothing but a pretty reflection for the world to see. All else was hidden. Reality had changed, had been taken over. None will ever see the truth. The girl will barely feel it, but the wounds will still grow deeper. The numbness will still get stronger and her life will be a broken mirror behind stone.

Conceal it. Hide it. That is all that can be done…

 

 

Words that endure…

“You just never know when your luck will change. So you don’t have to be the best or the smartest or the richest person in the room, but you have to be the hardest worker. Never giving up is how you make your own luck. Surviving. Survival.” -Justina Chen Headley

I’ve been “collecting” quotes, so to say, my whole life. When I was young I used to religiously write down anything from anywhere that made sense, that sparked an idea or emotion and keep then in my “quote book.” I still keep my little “collection” and add to it. So I decided to have quote post roughly once a week.To start I chose one that makes me get up and get things done. It’s from one of my favourite novels, “Girl Overboard” by Justina Chen Headley.