I want to write.
I really do.
But I can't write
Because I know
It will be deleted.
That's the truth.
The total, unvanquished truth.
Not ideas.
Those aren't a problem.
Thousands of them swirl in my head.
Spinning and twirling.
Graceful ballerinas.
Piling into snowdrifts,
Fluffy and white.
Angel's feathers.
They then wait to
Either melt
Or be captured
And last forever.
Mine always melt.
Into water that
Trickles through my fingers
Like tears.
Ideas.
I can't put them down.
I can draw.
I can post pictures.
But not stories.
"Why?"
You ask.
"They're just words."
But words are different from pictures.
In a way I can't really describe.
Pictures... I know they are good.
I have pride in my art.
Even if I hate them one month later.
But writing.
My mind is like a computer sometimes.
Dozens of documents.
I've worked on them, perfected them.
For weeks, months.
Walking to school,
Listening to the radio,
In the car,
I am writing.
In my head.
Recording thoughts.
Story ideas.
Paragraphs and paragraphs of sentences!
Words!
Stories!
That can't come out.
I've tried.
I really did.
I typed the first two sentences,
And then,
I stop.
I can't keep going.
I see it in my head,
Immaculate, perfect.
But...
I stare at the mostly empty screen.
And blank out.
"He tapped his fingers against the stone."
Now what?
What happens?
'I-I don't know...' I confess.
I can't work with this.
I can't work with planned out stories.
That I've savored for days, weeks, months.
Savored and worked on
Like a sweet lollipop,
That eventually gets eaten.
Stories that I know, I feel.
Mapped out.
Every word, every sentence,
I see it.
Like a field of flowers,
In full bloom.
But then,
If it's so beautiful,
Why is the picture of roses, and daffodils and lilacs
In my hands
So blurry and flawed and grainy?
Why are the words on the screen so ugly?
I ask, half-desperate, half-despairing.
It doesn't look like the one in my head.
Like the sketch is lovely,
But the final draft burns my eyes.
Why?!
Why can't I do this?!
Why doesn't it look like the one I see?!
But even if I write.
If I cough, choke out the words,
'Will they like it?'
I wonder.
'Probably no one will read it.'
I think.
'Yeah, no one will read the stuff I bleed for, died for.'
So I don't.
I don't publish.
I retreat. My hand backs away.
From the screen.
From the word
"Publish."
Some things are better off as memories.
Better off in my head.
Immaculate.
Pristine.
Perfect.
I actually wrote this on a whim as I was going to sleep. Most of my chapters are written before I go to bed.
Maybe that's why I can write them without double guessing myself a hundred times!
This also might be why I don't publish any stories, (TwT) Except for the weird ones I published months ago. :p
I really like writing in this format though! It feels like poetry even though it doesn't rhyme. I think it really leaves an impact and gets the meaning through. Even if no one understands it but me.
I've been posting a lot lately! Guess I've been super motivated! (^w^)
~Kitty out
