Every writer wants to go home and write on their stoep, changing the perspective of their life, one word at a time and I am no different. This feeling of finding my corner of introverted self perspection has persisted my whole life and is now threatening to take over my reality. Ive decided that I am going to call myself a writer because only writers are cursed with those damn perplexing words.
I sometimes think that words swallow me up and I live in what seems to be Jonahs stomach. The walls are lined with words that illuminate themselves so that I am able to pluck them off. I then change them, squash them and bend them; I stretch them and drop my spit all over them. They make me cry with frustration and friction which does not discriminate between old wounds. Words also cause me unbelievable happiness, calmness and beauty. Some words are heavier whilst some float in the air. Some words come with pictures and some with smells and some with all those things and more...those connotations drive me insane. All words have consequences and carry responsibility, even the small ones.
The paragraphs do not behave themselves either. After writing a good outline the paragraphs just go off in a never seen before tangent. The half illuminated words mock at me and disappear. New words illuminate brighter than before to fill up in the tangent and I am left with my dreadful dignity in shreds.I am not satisfied with dutiful words. Lightweight fillers which have no meaning except to fill up the line.
My truth overwhelms me at this point. I'm not a good writer because the words mock me and the paragraphs can't behave themselves. Although my truth hounds me like a starving ragged beast I sit daily grinding away. Words don't satiate my addiction to this form of self-flagellation. This is my truth and this is who I am. My words will tell my truth, blatantly exposing me. My words are bending me to their truth. This is my real truth.
