It occured to me a few months ago.
If I want to make a living being creative, I must begin to live a creative life first.
So I have been trying lately to do some, cough, amateur creative writing. This is something I wrote just a while ago, and it's actually about taking the plunge into creativity and art, if you can pick up what I'm puttin down.
It's boringly titled "Falling"...I'll work on that.
If I want to make a living being creative, I must begin to live a creative life first.
So I have been trying lately to do some, cough, amateur creative writing. This is something I wrote just a while ago, and it's actually about taking the plunge into creativity and art, if you can pick up what I'm puttin down.
It's boringly titled "Falling"...I'll work on that.
I am falling. Or at least i think im falling. I cant be sure.
I cant be sure because its dark, and still, and silent, and all those tools with which I am well equipt to determine
wether or not i surely am falling are useless. But something, some organ of the inner ear, or some imagination
filling in fearful emptiness, is telling me i am falling. Its as good an assumption as any i guess. Ill work with it
for now.
What before falling? I dont know.
It could very well be that i have have been always tumbling down through nothing, and have tricked myself into
thinking there must be a before. Or there has been a whole life, memory now erased, which would throw these many
moments into the saddest perspective, if only i could regain hold.
Outside, nothing.
Inside, nothing.
I suppose i have the advantage of being blank, the cleanest of foundations, pure unaltered human biology ready
for the weight of experience. I suppose i have the great disadvantage of being bored. Myself is my world, and the
world myself, and in the darkness i have felt my insides churning like machines, and my mind firing like a
million lightnings, striking my arms, my liver, my eyes, forcing explosions of motion which have no reference or
meaning in this constant dark, but tell me i am an existance, and not just some portion of the black which has risen
to pretend form and...
A new thought.
What of sound?
There is no sound from outer sources. Silence complete, like a mountain of negative space that is the only
weight bearing down on me. But could i? Could i create? Tounge, lips, teeth, i have, but courage? Courage to
speak and be the only? Courage to wait for an echo that will never come? Courage to face the joy of some change,
some kill of the monotony? True fear that if i speak i may die of happiness, or wither in despair. To die, what an
idea.
I shall speak.
But what shall i speak? The first of my utterances may be the first of all, the begining of sound, the standard by
which all other sounds may be given value. Should i choose out a word whose weight will equal the power of its
birth, a heavy word to hold up those others who come after it, and shoulder the weight for eternity? Or a word
bouyant, which will float forever above all others to come, like a spectre eyes light with wisdom? No. I will
choose a word of progress,a word of constant flow in and towards and away from time. Not an anchor nor a lofty
witness, but vine which grows and fruits and constricts and gives and takes and is untraceable to its beginings and
undesigned towards its final destinations.
"Go.", i speak into the nothing.
"I will stay.", returns a voice from the dark.
