Another Life #15

When I wake up, I am wide asleep. All of life is the ephemera of dreams. Every touch, every word a wisp of cloud that dissipates under the force of a breath. Always moving, slowly, drifting. There is no way to hold on to the passing moments, for they are illusions that slip through your fingers when you try to grasp them. All you see is nothing more than an instantaneous idea of the universe, to be replaced almost as quickly with the next.

Or perhaps all around us is real, and we are imagined.

Another Life #14

Take me back…

…to when I was in love with you. You were so perfect, and I had this hopeful glimmer. Before the unfulfillment and disappointment, before the months I spent crying over you and the plans for showing you how over it all I was the next time we met. To when the thought of your arms around me gave me a lovely chill. To when I was sure that it would be just like I imagined, only better.

…to a moment walking alongside the River Lee in Cork, feeling a sudden clarity and contentment. There was nothing picturesque or perfect about it, but I’ve been too long trying to remember that feeling.

…to flying in dreams, soaring through streaks of colors and light, a rush of excitement and unreality, and then awakening and recalling how real that feeling was.

Your Mission, Should You Choose To Accept It

A while ago, I had the artist’s equivalent of a crisis of faith. I thought about my efforts as a writer and wondered WHY. My work seemed so unnecessary compared to that of teachers and engineers. I wished I had decided to be a computer programmer, since the constant development of technology means there will always be something for them to do.

And being constantly reminded that there are no new stories (which, in a very basic sense, is true) did not help.

I just thought about things that were wrong with the world, and the different types of suffering that afflicts people, hunger, diseases, overcrowding, trauma… and I wished I were someone who visibly helped alleviate it. I felt guilty for having a life’s calling that connected more to luxury than survival.

I no longer question that there is a purpose to literature. The value of writing is undeniable, although it seems less and less appreciated by the world at large as the internet continues to create ever more misinformed and illiterate generations…

But I have been wondering what the point of ME is. I haven’t worked on writing at all in weeks now. I can’t even take the time to come out with a miniscule little one-sentence microfiction. I could blame it on my malfunctioning “m” key, but that really isn’t the main problem. And whatever happened to those full days of writing I was going to have? I was so excited about them.

And the thing is, when I do look back over certain projects, like the first two chapters of the Helen of Troy novel I have posted on the tab entitled “Helen” (go read if you haven’t) or the Another Life series, I know they’re good. If I could get off my ass (not literally, as I usually sit while writing) and just translate the ideas in my head onto the screen of the computer, I would be so much closer. I have some ideas for how to get my motivation back, but those methods lie beyond my control. So, anyone have any ideas – OTHER than just sitting down and writing every day, which does not work for me for very long – I might use to get my creative juices flowing?