Sunday, January 3, 2010

poor old Michael Finnigan

A friend asked me yesterday if I was still writing. Basically, not really.

There was a time I couldn't stop. The internal monologue became external, and I would provide narrative to the spoken word. Actual events became rife with literary symbolism, shadows of books that hadn't been written, echoed on the cave wall of my mind.

I have previously vowed not to let certain, very changeful things change me. And now, with a bit of crow in my mouth, I look back and see that the times, they have been a changin'. Some good, yes. more than just some- a lot good. but some of me has been left by the roadside, and I suppose I just want to make sure that the creative outlet isn't one of those things. The guitar has sat in its case in the livingroom since I got to JAX in October. I'm singing a lot, but writing only sporadically and certainly not uploading it. I guess I've just been burned too much. so this... I don't know what this is going to be yet. perhaps just a horse of a different color.

It's the third of January, but it's not too late. Not too late to say a few things about 2010. To say that though I feel strong enough for anger, I also can't think about anything that's worth getting angry over. To say that I'm going to embrace patience and vegetables. Peace and long walks. Introspection and saying words that are unsafe when it feels safer to be safe: words that have meaning and carry weight further than their own conversation.

To say yes to writing, and no to fear.

No comments:

Post a Comment