2004-08-01
Let us abstain from this whoring
Last night, I fell asleep at a very late hour--reaching dawn, perhaps. The beauty of staying up at such ungodly hours is that during these times, the world seems quiet, and I feel as if I were some ghost wandering about my hallways and pacing my floors.
I listened to Chopin, and I listened to his Ballade No. 1 over, and over. I asked myself whether or not I could ever get the point, where I would be eloquent enough to describe--with words--every one of his pieces. I have a poem for each one. My book collection was also something to look at, and I flipped through pages and read random words out of Sartre, and Ingeni�ros.
There was but one question that arose in my mind--�When?�. When did this prostitution, this whoring...when did it begin? Some English teachers have suggested that I major in English when I attend the university, and these suggestions began as early as grade eight.
But I won�t pretend to know everything there is about the beauty that is the written word, because I don�t. And I don�t refer to myself neither as a writer, nor a poet--I am far away from that, and have not even scratched the surface with my mediocre descriptions. I don�t know everything that writing is, or is supposed to be. Simply, I am an eighteen year old who enjoys writing, and isn�t half bad sometimes. The reason why I never listen to the suggestions of my English teachers (regarding my majoring in English) is because I love writing too much. Probably, when one takes the thing that they truly love and pulls and gnaws at it to ring success or money out, in the end--sadly--one cannot even find a trace of what they first started loving.
I am becoming a whore now, and am beginning to catch it. I need to put a stop to it. Half of the time, I wonder if I even feel what I write, and that�s disgusting. I don�t want to write to have people praise me--I don�t want to write for anyone. I don�t want to mass produce or manufacture anything, I want to create.
And there was a time when it was pure and clean and I only wrote for myself. A year ago (and this is how paranoid I was about my writing) I would not have even told anyone that I wrote.
I don�t want attention, I want my love back. I have been giving serious thought to whether or not I should abstain from this diary for several months and feel again. Walking to my morning classes and some strange and unknown feeling just hits me and I have to quickly take out my notebook and pen because it will only last those five minutes, and like some mystical bird, I have to catch it--that�s how it�s supposed to be.
I don�t make outlines, I don�t edit anything.
This morning is filled with uncertainty, because I wonder what it is that I must do. Writing is that precious silver-lined cloud that I cannot, with my stained hands, even touch. This is how serious it has become. Too much thinking in one week, I suppose. Tomorrow, I will go out and buy myself another art book.
Truly, I apologize to those writers whom I have offended. I am putting an end to this whoring.