Something like a diary entry...
By itchingmyknee
It’s official. I have writer’s block. My creative spark has died. The flower of my imagination has withered.
I sit in my little office, and write my little articles for my little magazine, and all extraneous matter is ignored and defeated. Have I been conquered by “The Man”? Is this just a phase? Will I recover?
What if end up dreary and sad, unable to do anything but her 9-5? What if that’s all that’s left for me? My youth will drain away, I will lose my looks, and there won’t be word left inside me to make my stamp on the world.
Maybe this is a sign. Maybe I should leave my job? But what would I do? How would I survive?
I wish I was like my boyfriend. He is a musician and spends the day in his studio listening to samples and making beats. He has a constant flow of people coming to visit him. Some of them come for tea, some come to rap, some come to smoke. He doesn’t have any money. And it upsets him. But at least he’s free.
What price our fair liberty?
I have 12 days holiday left to take this year. Maybe I’ll do something amazing with them and fill my head with thoughts and schemes and plots for stories that boggle reality. I’ll have adventures and slay dragons and take pictures of rivers flowing with strawberry nesquik.
Therein lies the problem. Every day should be an adventure. My walk to work should be full of new sights and smells, just by using my own observation, and looking with new eyes. My little articles should inspire me. My sandwiches should be savoured and remind me of feasts from King Arthur’s court.
Where have all the adventures gone?
It’s official. I have writer’s block. My creative spark has died. The flower of my imagination has withered.
I sit in my little office, and write my little articles for my little magazine, and all extraneous matter is ignored and defeated. Have I been conquered by “The Man”? Is this just a phase? Will I recover?
What if end up dreary and sad, unable to do anything but her 9-5? What if that’s all that’s left for me? My youth will drain away, I will lose my looks, and there won’t be word left inside me to make my stamp on the world.
Maybe this is a sign. Maybe I should leave my job? But what would I do? How would I survive?
I wish I was like my boyfriend. He is a musician and spends the day in his studio listening to samples and making beats. He has a constant flow of people coming to visit him. Some of them come for tea, some come to rap, some come to smoke. He doesn’t have any money. And it upsets him. But at least he’s free.
What price our fair liberty?
I have 12 days holiday left to take this year. Maybe I’ll do something amazing with them and fill my head with thoughts and schemes and plots for stories that boggle reality. I’ll have adventures and slay dragons and take pictures of rivers flowing with strawberry nesquik.
Therein lies the problem. Every day should be an adventure. My walk to work should be full of new sights and smells, just by using my own observation, and looking with new eyes. My little articles should inspire me. My sandwiches should be savoured and remind me of feasts from King Arthur’s court.
Where have all the adventures gone?
posted by bitingmylip at 3:56 AM
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