I wrote a poem. I’m at a crossroads in life, and no doubt overwhelmed. Enjoy.
Clearly, your feet have not dipped past the ivy crusted rims
Feeling the soft tickling of forgotten mosses,
They’ve meandered through the clattering shells clinging
To rounded flowers opening and closing before you.
They have not waded between the fluid roads revealed and at end
In the sky wandering round and straight in their wondrous Milky Way.
Where have you rested your head, those days you believed it was softened moss?
Whose breath did you let caress your face, what purple did you make your shade of nightingale?
They turn round eastward, towards instinctively home
The auburn sky is ablaze and you are there,
But still teeming, seething and afloat.
The chasms spread before, thinly sunk into worn crevices,
Peeling skins off of the age old trees and the heaven dense auras
The valleys and its hidden villages are to be pillaged
Only by those ravenous in the mouth.
A donkey bears the laden fruits of your search
And together you make it to the hole
Where you bury the hatchet, and leave the memories under
The skies fondle a home in the murky waters below.
Your sister is both there and already in the wind,
Faces sunken, but never lost.
Well done, the deed is done.
Whatever you have seen,
The losses you have carried,
The tragedies you have committed in both your name and others,
The slandered will rest easy tonight.
When the night falls, and you offer your soul to the pits,
You are free, and free of burden.
I am a twenty-something, kinda-Asian, kinda-artsy, kinda-lost-and-clueless college student. What a solid introduction, but that is the best summary of my current and more-so on going situation. I am not lazy, I am moderately hard working and moderately willing to take risks. Yet, so often I find myself in bed, crushed under the weight of all the assignments I want to do well in and things I want to discover.
Then I take a brief nap, and blame it on my food coma. I doodle in my journal about avante garde art, and reminisce a century that challenged everyone and everything to art for art’s sake. I sit on my desk, begin rearranging the mess that I’ve made during the peak of my motivation levels, and open my computer to type. I find myself opening Quora and Tumblr and Facebook, and eventually, WordPress. And so I type. And begin to realize that there seems to be a recurring pattern to what I prefer to do in my free time, or rather, things that I pursue despite having none.
The other day I posted a question on Quora, beseeching the Quora greats on how to keep motivated, how to remain inspired and how to continue writing. I’ve never fully considered writing to be a career choice, despite my habitual ramblings that I mindlessly share in all my social media platforms. I don’t want to label myself as a writer and have expectations, judgments and criticism, and stick closely to “snippets” in which my thoughts and its translation into a flow of words, best comes across. The answer was simple. Embrace it fully. Writing and words do not come by without effort, and in most cases, comes as an exorcism of emotions not so much for any other true benefit besides the soul. Art for art’s sake.
I want to though. Desperately.
Ever since I began this private blog site, a miserable teen on Christmas day in a cold, unlit room in Harare, Zimbabwe, I had the simple goal of writing and creating and putting something out there that would not have much significant meaning to anyone really besides myself. Slowly, my number of followers increased, and as I began searching for other like-minded blogs, I tried to do multiple things–house reviews, shopping hauls and the sort. Things that would increase my views and make me feel established.
“I”, the metaphysical ego.
Since then, my writing became even more erratic as it became a chore rather than an open forum where I could sort through my emotions and make meaning of the flashes. Rather than simply reverting this passion into the simple blogger I was 3 years ago, I want to reform, and begin to reveal the raw edges of myself again.