Phobias One
*msn: Call me Ishmael.
There are times when I am afraid to continue reading, be it novels, stories, columns, articles, blogs, or random jottings on notepaper, quickly discarded and unexpectedly discovered.
This is because of the people who write either with such mind-bending clarity, the kind who put, so easily, into words the little (or large) feelings that up till now only manifested themselves in certain chills or tingles of the person, or whose words spill off the page and slosh and swirl around like corporeal music, language to be enjoyed for the sake of itself, or, and this is the frightening-est of all, both.
You see, I am afraid, that buoyed on the twin seas of such Rhyme and Reason, I will never be able to write ever again with a truly original thought or turn of phrase, because such beauty never really leaves the realm of memory, and in all possibility will permeate throughout my brain, finally manifesting itself on paper (or screen) in response to clamorous pleadings of my woefully uninspired imagination.
So the choice is this: to remain brackish water of an isolated, unknown swamp, or a sweet and sparkling beverage mass-produced and mass-appealed, designed to imitate the finest, lightest, rarest of champagnes?
There are times when I am afraid to continue reading, be it novels, stories, columns, articles, blogs, or random jottings on notepaper, quickly discarded and unexpectedly discovered.
This is because of the people who write either with such mind-bending clarity, the kind who put, so easily, into words the little (or large) feelings that up till now only manifested themselves in certain chills or tingles of the person, or whose words spill off the page and slosh and swirl around like corporeal music, language to be enjoyed for the sake of itself, or, and this is the frightening-est of all, both.
You see, I am afraid, that buoyed on the twin seas of such Rhyme and Reason, I will never be able to write ever again with a truly original thought or turn of phrase, because such beauty never really leaves the realm of memory, and in all possibility will permeate throughout my brain, finally manifesting itself on paper (or screen) in response to clamorous pleadings of my woefully uninspired imagination.
So the choice is this: to remain brackish water of an isolated, unknown swamp, or a sweet and sparkling beverage mass-produced and mass-appealed, designed to imitate the finest, lightest, rarest of champagnes?
posted by me me me at
1:27 PM
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