Dear Diary of Fantastic Discoveries

 

Every great discovery starts with a lyric or two about life. Someone once told me that for every moment in your life there has already been a great lyric sung about it. This by no means is a detriment to writing in any way. He explained it to me as “ If you can’t find that special lyric that relates to the moment, then go write it yourself because the words are like fading stars among many other bleak stars in the sky. “

A writer is forever fighting between the balance of knowing that no one can write like the greats, and most writing is a way of saying similar stories in new ways. Truly, writers are in a tragic position. We have to understand that our writing may one day end up on a dusty shelf with mold over the pages. So, this great discovery I made is the reason I write. The reason is that I can’t imagine myself without having an overwhelming desire to   gorge out words onto white paper, and hoping someone will read them like I am sure William Shakespeare did with his playwrights. Writing is a desire. A habit like a guitarist has to constantly want to play the strings upon the instrument with a wish for a beautiful sound to occur from the musician’s hand, but the musician has little understanding of why his hands are moving as if a ghost has taken over his body. A feeling like that is a desire to me. A desire to survive under the azure ocean like a fish as it fills its lungs with more water, and swims through murky water to explore the expansive world. If it wasn’t for this desire to write, I can’t imagine who I would be, or who I would become? Would I be a delinquent sitting in jail? Would I be dead from an overdose like all the other people who needed an escape from their life, except they took a permanent route?

I hear from everyone that writing is hard. Writing is difficult. Writing is not like math where you can memorize it, and have the formula for everything. Trust me..I hate math. Math is not easy. On the other hand, writing is easy for me like weaving your mind onto a blank page, and hoping the words display some form of mechanics. I’ve gotten to the point where I write an entire essay, just to stare at it, and wonder how the words got on the page. Sometimes, I wonder if something is wrong with my memory, or if I touch upon the forbidden treasure called the zone.  

We can infer the zone to be like the place athletes go when they are playing an intense game, and just gravitate to doing really well. This same zone occurs in most creative people when they start to draw an image, or get into a writing spree. My type of zone is when I write, and I can’t seem to comprehend what I am writing until the words spew out onto the page. I feel my hands pulse as they record words from the abyss of my mind.

My reality is much like one of those that you find in the history of a stripper! I don’t mean this as I became a stripper. Strippers actually make thousands of dollars a night, if their good.. ( OH…I SHOULDN’T KNOW THAT.) Let me get into the nitty gritty about when my life showed me how writing, and reading are a safer escape from reality than drugs, or sex. ( Not that sex isn’t fun. Believe me. I enjoy it like the rest of the world. But I don’t obsess over it. I only give it if I love the person, but that is a tale for later entries..)  

-Insert sudden sob story-

My father was one of those men who claimed they worked hard everyday, but never did a single chore in the house. Chores were females jobs. ( Tahaha, sexism played best.) Daddy made money..and I don’t mean money like a middle class man. My dad was a high-class carpenter for a casino, probably making more money than my eyes will ever see. However, his problem was that he was like Darth vader except on crack. He was abusive, insulting, and even forgetful at times. His idea of spoiling me is giving me everything I want…even if it was a rated R movie…for a seven year old.

My mother is the very epitome of someone who understands love, and sacrifice. She taught me most of what I know today about the world. Her right arm is currently getting botox in it to try to get it to move. Yes, this makes her a disabled woman. A disabled woman that had to take care of two children on her own. I think she managed to do so, but the sacrifice for her was much. Sometimes, a bit too much for my brain to even feel comfortable with. But, honestly I discovered writing right after my most tragic event in life. An event that is better left unsaid. However, my natural affinity for writing took flight like a fighter jet right before it takes off from the landing. It was an event that worked like kindling that lit up a writing fire.

I couldn’t deal with the reality I faced as a child. I couldn’t stand the way people looked at me with my fish like eyes. ( Two lazy eyes made for an awful amount of ammunition to be teased for. ) Writing may have been a calling like a whisper in the wind, or it could be my downfall like Lord Voldemort’s mistake with Harry Potter. I can’t explain this reason I write. But it is a desire to leave reality, leave behind a cruel world we witness daily, and create a place where struggles have an actual possibility for a happy ending.  

Maybe, we are all souls trapped for eternity to play out the roles we were born with like robotic machines. Or maybe, we are souls given new chances to fend for our life. But from what I understand.. the reason I write is so raw to me that I don’t have a way to explain the flow of sprinkling words that breath from between my fingertips.

On a side note, I hope you have enjoyed reading this discovery for there are many more to come. Some will about love, video games, or just random ideas in my head. Please like, comment, or subscribe to this blog for more  great posts from me.

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