Bipolar Journalling:
For getting you, I must not forget others.For choo... / It is Easter Sunday / "If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well ... / When a Daddy and Mummy Sim love each other very mu... / Foreplay was invented so even the ugly could procr... / Awwww! / What I like to call shameless self promotion. / Iris - Goo Goo Dolls / Petey loves Genie!! / Things I hate about showering at hall /
:: Wednesday, April 19, 2006 ::
The Inner Monologue
I've been given to much reflectivity and introspection in times of quiet. In my mind, I talk to myself - I think perhaps it's to do with being a writer. I believe that writing should not be forced. How else can you achieve that fluidity of language if these words are not ones that appear in your mind, like a whispered secret? Phrases, half-invented, half remembered, and who knows which is which.
These thoughts drift through my consciousness. It is one of those days you're alone in the world, but you don't really need anyone to be with you. Breakfast alone, and a short walk across the bridge, experiencing one of my favourite sensations - the wind caressing my hair like a gentle lover.
There are many things I think about - but very little makes its way to the rest of the world. Once past, they seldom re-emerge in exactly the same form. Try catching a breeze. I try to scribe the thoughts, but then... it just becomes forced again, as this passage is rapidly becoming.
Anyway.
An inner monologue, you understand, is not like one of those times you're worried and your thoughts flit around like so many moths about a candle flame, admiring and courting death. Nebulous, insubstantial, repetitive, consumed by fire and destroyed.
It's more like a conversation with an invisible audience - vestiges of my adolescent egotism. It is a conscious effort at making sensible sentences. But like a conversation, the moment it runs through my mind, it is gone, lost to the world in a puff of warm breath, except there isn't even a receiver to remember my message.
There's a wistful quality about losing your thoughts or trying to re-express them in shoddy construction of words. The purity is lost, the poetic nature is lost and the words no longer delight as they should in my mind.
My dream... my wish to have the ability to capture the attention of the audience, to have them rapt, just doesn't translate here. It can't.
Thus is the eternal struggle of the artist to share his view of the world with others. We are but gifted with meagre talent, insufficient to express the magnitude of feeling, of encompassing thought. Our delight goes unshared.
If only there were a way to press heart to heart, soul to soul and say: "This is what I think. This is what I feel. Now understand."
If only.Labels: Philosophy, Sentiment
:: And that's all she wrote 11:17 AM [+] ::
4 comments
4 Comments:
the best conversation occurs when no words need to be said.
A compact conversation that involves making faces and body language...
believe it or not thats not what i meant...
Believe it or not, I was being facetious. As usual.
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