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[Apr. 1st, 2008|04:02 pm] |
I Hold My Tongue.
Words are hard to grasp. Like dandelions whisked by the wind, they come fleeting and mysterious, ready to be swept up in an instant. Thoughts and stories of distant lands swirl around deeply ingrained memories and mingle with the less permanent and mundane concepts of learned academia.
Without a pen, or any way to capture them, I am left knowing they once existed, but without their meaning or any tangible remnant.
Sadly, it is a frequent occurrence, this inability to flood pages with words. Whether I label it lack of creativity or simple frustration, it all means the same thing: fear. I am simply afraid of what purging my mind of these enigmatic words, and stories will result in. I am afraid of producing something less than extraordinary, but in the same vein, I am fearful of producing greatness. I want my writing to mean something, but it is unfamiliar territory to touch a spark deep within another or even to produce fire within myself.
And so, I keep my words locked within me out of this fear, out of this inability to let myself speak to the world.
I am my own cage. Both a prisoner and a captor. |
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