First off, I don't like it. I suppose I haven't much choice though. No one ever asks you if you're ready to grow up, they just hand you a diploma, tell you to get a job and there you are. Ready, supposedly, and for all intents and purposes, a grown-up.
It's quite ridiculous really, that at twenty-three you'd expect me to know what the hell to do with my life. I haven't got a clue. I call my parents at least 5 times a week. I can't even order cable without their input. I crave validation in the same manner I did at age four, and I'm constantly reminded that by my age, Keats was dead and a masterful poet. Don't even get me started on my inequalities when it comes to Dylan Thomas. How he ever developed such a masterful understanding of the english language is beyond me. My personal opinion, I could write a plot like Bill Shakespeare, no problem, but to write a poem like Thomas? It's enough to make you quit.
I write all day, only to come home to no desire whatsoever to write anything. And if I do write, well it's no good. It sits in the journal and I read it six months later and hate it. Generally speaking. You'd think grown-ups would have more inspiration. We don't. If anything our inspiration is drained by the drum of a 9-5. Even if it is the 9-5 you've been telling yourself for the last five years that you want. Or a means to it.
Today someone I work with told me how much he hated hemingway...as a man, not a writer. Well who did love him as a man? Except his wives, and maybe secretly gertrude. The man was a bastard. but he's a loveable bastard. And you know, for all that he was, I don't think you could say he wasn't an honest human being. And sometimes, just for that, I love him as a man. Even though I never knew him, (and how can you hate or love someone you never knew- old hem would be pissed at that, we throw those words around too much) I still have an admiration for him as both man and a writer. Because to some extent, you cannot seperate the two.
It's like when you're listening to Harry Morgan think about killing Eddie. (to have and have not) And you hate him for it, but you identify with him, and you respect him for being honest about it. old hem doesn't bullshit. It's a quality I wish I had.
As a grown up, I realize just how much I aim to please other people. I never used to be like that. When you're a kid, everything is simple, black and white. You know who you are and you're proud of yourself. A kind of humble pride that only kids can have. When you grow up, the lines blur, you're not so sure of yourself, and even when you are sure, you keep your mouth shut. Sometimes I wish I had the guts to be my eight year old self.
Or the talent to turn a one liner into a story.
Sometimes I wish I'd experienced more, or loved more, or done anything to get me where I need to be, and sometimes I call that out as bullshit. I should be able to write with what I have. But sometimes I can't or I don't want to, or I don't feel like a grown up. So I gotta write what I feel, what I know. What's it's like to be uncertain and trapped within the world's expectations. Be a real, honest human being and hope that someone out there gets something from it. Live and drink deep and take in all that I can.
Maybe I'll be hated when I'm dead, but at least I'll have lived.
It's quite ridiculous really, that at twenty-three you'd expect me to know what the hell to do with my life. I haven't got a clue. I call my parents at least 5 times a week. I can't even order cable without their input. I crave validation in the same manner I did at age four, and I'm constantly reminded that by my age, Keats was dead and a masterful poet. Don't even get me started on my inequalities when it comes to Dylan Thomas. How he ever developed such a masterful understanding of the english language is beyond me. My personal opinion, I could write a plot like Bill Shakespeare, no problem, but to write a poem like Thomas? It's enough to make you quit.
I write all day, only to come home to no desire whatsoever to write anything. And if I do write, well it's no good. It sits in the journal and I read it six months later and hate it. Generally speaking. You'd think grown-ups would have more inspiration. We don't. If anything our inspiration is drained by the drum of a 9-5. Even if it is the 9-5 you've been telling yourself for the last five years that you want. Or a means to it.
Today someone I work with told me how much he hated hemingway...as a man, not a writer. Well who did love him as a man? Except his wives, and maybe secretly gertrude. The man was a bastard. but he's a loveable bastard. And you know, for all that he was, I don't think you could say he wasn't an honest human being. And sometimes, just for that, I love him as a man. Even though I never knew him, (and how can you hate or love someone you never knew- old hem would be pissed at that, we throw those words around too much) I still have an admiration for him as both man and a writer. Because to some extent, you cannot seperate the two.
It's like when you're listening to Harry Morgan think about killing Eddie. (to have and have not) And you hate him for it, but you identify with him, and you respect him for being honest about it. old hem doesn't bullshit. It's a quality I wish I had.
As a grown up, I realize just how much I aim to please other people. I never used to be like that. When you're a kid, everything is simple, black and white. You know who you are and you're proud of yourself. A kind of humble pride that only kids can have. When you grow up, the lines blur, you're not so sure of yourself, and even when you are sure, you keep your mouth shut. Sometimes I wish I had the guts to be my eight year old self.
Or the talent to turn a one liner into a story.
Sometimes I wish I'd experienced more, or loved more, or done anything to get me where I need to be, and sometimes I call that out as bullshit. I should be able to write with what I have. But sometimes I can't or I don't want to, or I don't feel like a grown up. So I gotta write what I feel, what I know. What's it's like to be uncertain and trapped within the world's expectations. Be a real, honest human being and hope that someone out there gets something from it. Live and drink deep and take in all that I can.
Maybe I'll be hated when I'm dead, but at least I'll have lived.
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