zufolo
“Somehow I lost touch
When you went out of sight
When you got lost into the city
Got lost into the night”
What is it to produce quality work and construct a meaningful poem or story?
First, one must ask who determines the desirability. The writer determines the intention of the piece, though the reader assigns it utility. Intent does not qualify the benefit; does art need to have such merit?
I keep coming back to the inquiry of why I write and why someone would care to read my abstract musings. I write for myself. When I sit down with a notebook and pen hanging over the page, I never consider how my words will affect others. Writing is a practice of meditation. It’s how I arrive at a deeper understanding of myself and how I interact with others. It’s a purge and a promise of nostalgia; I write to recreate the wonderful.
Characters have shown me how to love and let go, more so than any event I’ve experienced. I learn from the stories of others; when I’m neck-deep in my own affairs, often, the emotions are too intense. This may be a fancy bit of disassociation, the withdrawal from my reality into someone else’s.
Validation is such an important aspect of the human condition. The unreliable narrator validates my less-than-desirable persona. I’m constantly comparing myself to others.
Fictional friends are the impasse. It's never personal with a character from a novel. I don’t care about historical fact-checking. You can tell me an untruth, and if it speaks to my soul, I will accept it. I accept the unseen and unspoken with an unbridled sense of awe.
There is only one choice: to decide who you will become. In tandem with external events you cannot control. I do not get to dictate my surroundings. I do not choose how I am perceived or my place in the world. Much is decided for me, yet I can define the person I want to be. To act is the only outcome; each time I move, it bears weight on the world of form.
Who will I be? What am I becoming? What do I want to illuminate? What will I be accountable for in the future?
My practice is to look forward; I will not go backward. There is nowhere to be but where I am, and I ripped my world in half to stand in the sand. I have a deeper understanding of what I’ve given up in exchange for a wider worldview. My why is always changing; it shifts like the ocean. Rinse and recede; the waves lap forwards even as the tide draws back.
I wake up lethargic and sore every morning. Whatever I carry is heavy and is not ready to be released. I depart for England in a week, and I hope there is an answer waiting for me in the mountains of Whales, though I've yet to ask a question.
Photo source.
