Requesting One Muse ...Thursday, November 21, 2002

Sitting at my desk, I sift my thoughts through a sieve. My mind is sometimes paralyzed by the whiteness of a computer screen and the space to be filled. I feel and see life, emotion, and history happening everyday and I am scared that my talent falls short of expressing it. I read what others write, and I read books and I doubt myself. I doubt my ability. This is the last thing I have. My writing is the last facet of my personality that is still mine and not marked or intruded upon by outside forces.

I had found my best friend the moment I learned to read. I craved books more than I craved food. More than I craved for sunlight, or for running amongst other children. While some parents were trying to get their children to stop watching television, my mother was forcing me to watch television so I would stop reading. She even went as far as to hide books from me as punishment. Fictional characters were my friends, my beau's, my arch enemies, my travel agents, and my lovers. And I wanted to give to the world, everything that books gave to me. I wanted to be able to set to paper a masterpiece that would make someone cry, and make them have a change of perspective. Now, I think that I am just dreaming.

How to organize the jumble of words that vibrate in my head?

There is so much beauty in the written word, and such a large expanse and room for growth. Words can paint pictures and create moods and destroy souls. It has been my greatest pleasure to create stories and poetry. It has also been my greatest defeat. I fear not finding the right word or the right sentence to express what I feel. I have always wanted this, and yet, it seems like I have done everything to make it not happen. Every story I have started gets set aside and eventually discarded, and my poetry needs revision, and I let them fade away on paper, untouched. I see other people writing and I think, 'how do they do it? How can they sit and get it all out?'

What does this all lead to? I feel like my mind is rotting and that I am vegetating. I don't desire to write like I once did.

Requesting one muse. Even if its the runtiest muse in all musedom.


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