Ever Just want to Write?
Ever just want to write?
(This is my second “Imperfect story” post and part of my stories around pointing to imperfections, and value to not be stuck inside a filter bubble)
Growing up one of my favorite books was by James Joyce, and it was perhaps a book within a book. I think of free writing much like art, it flows, it enters this spot where you land, much like an artist does who adds paint on a canvas to form an art piece they are creating from their heart a bit more than their mind. I see writing this way a means of being free, the sort of freedom that perhaps I find stifled in many countries where I have visited.
“I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it calls itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defense the only arms I allow myself to use — silence, exile, and cunning.” — The Portrait of An Artist As A Young Man, by James Joyce
Unformed — by me
Sometimes I want to just write,
About flying a kite,
My first kiss on a hill,
That first real thrill,
The guys who make me blush,
The toilets in malls that never flush,
Old markets in hot places,
Those years my sibling wore braces,
Deep thoughts on AI and life
Why I miss my old Swiss Army knife,
The tragic things that have me cry,
Plus all the reasons I don’t want to die.
Sometimes I just want to write,
Tap away
Putting breath into abstract shapes,
Creating human-like apes,
Villains in capes,
And mysterious lovers dancing in caves.
I write to feel,
To help me heal,
To get to live as I crave,
Remind myself to stay brave,
To get myself out of a bind,
To be free like this,
To unwind and be in bliss.
That’s it.
