We Write to Substitue a Reality that Doesn't Exist

I feel that we sometimes write, some of us write, to substitute for a reality that we desire, but doesn't truly exist. There are times I need to get out my feelings that are so bottled that that they threaten to explode from within the confines of my mind

 Right at this moment, I'm tired, and would like to tell

someone as much, and in turn be rewarded with heartfelt,

understanding dialogue.
Not even really the mushy, like-a-movie,

stay-up-all-night-talking type of romantic malarky.
I mean a real, intelligent conversation where I'm

speaking to someone who cares. Not just -- cares. Someone

who really, cares!
I know my parents love me, but talking to them is kinda

awkward, especially in regards to this kinda stuff.

Realizing that there was no way on earth I was going to

get the dream-conversation I so desired, filled with

compassion and a yearning to make me happy, I considered

writing one.
That's when it hit me; maybe we're writing in order to

substitute for the reality that we want! Not all of the

time, mind you, obviously writing is fun and there are

numerous reasons to write!
Some of us could do it, every once in a while, to escape

what we thought was a fantasy.
I never dreamed of being lonely in my life, not for real,

and the only way to avoid it is really to just pray, and

maybe write about the relationship that might one-day be.

Wow, after writing the period to that last sentence my

mind blanked, like the last drop falling from an empty

glass.
I feel the need to write more, as if my feelings aren't

expressed, but no words, no thoughts, no emotions come to

me any more.
I wonder if it means I've accurately conveyed my thoughts

and that to add more would simply be to ramble. . . .



On a closing note-- someone out there, someone, be true,

be real, hear me. . . . heh, what a foolish fantasy I

wish I lived in. . . filled with the empty lies of the

world, but dumped in a place where they are filled

with life and once again bring promises-- true promises,

of an existing hope.

This world offers nothing, and I'm even afraid of heaven,

but not as afraid as I am of hell.
Don't you get it? My mind is so filled with all of these

thoughts, raging a war between right and wrong, and the

perception thereof is like a liquid that cannot be shaped

into a solid reality!
I can't decide right and wrong and true and false!
And amidst all this, I can't help but hope that I'll get

some kind of psychic powers because of the opening up my

mind of the world.
Instead of the release of energy I keep hoping for, but am

never able to grasp a muscle to, I get just plain reality

crashing back like a persisting wave, unrelenting, and

unwilling to let me go ashore, nor go deeper in should I

want; only straight down where the fads, trends, the

people, suck the life from my desire.


Who reads this garbage, anyway? I don't even know what

I'm writing, anymore.

Point is, I'm staring at my computer screen, and when I

pushed my glasses up the rim of my nose, and blinked

indifferently, I wondered if I could possibly be the good-looking guy that no one admits is good-looking. The wonder that people reject, even in fear of the

incredible.

Like that'll ever happen.

Author's Note

Take it as it is, but it's how I truly feel.

Reviews

[Chelsea Schermerhorn]

I know the exact feeling. My life is like this, and this is why I write. All of my life, I've been addicted to books and literature. It started with an enormous fairytale book my aunt bought me when I was a baby. In my 6th grade year, I started running out of books in the Intermediate school library (small school = small library) I had to start going over to the Junior High Library for the purpose of reading for a grade. When I got to 7th grade in the Junior High, I ran out of books again. I began to think of starting my own (Secret Powers) to escape reality like reading had always done for me. Writing proved a safe haven from the depression of losing my sister and best friend to moving in the same year, and that's why I began writing in the first place, to replace my reality with a reality that could only be present in my own mind and in order to express my feelings, emotions, and budding personality. The ink and the paper are the friends that will always listen when you need someone to care.

[Raef C. Boylan]

One of the best pieces of free-verse I've read on here, in terms of sincerity and introspection, as well as language, tone and presentation. I related to a lot of this, as I'm sure many people will.

How strange
that all we wish for is honesty
and compassion
yet so many
choose not to exercise
either one
in general activities
and conversation.

Your subtle rhyming helped to ease the flow along.

I guess sometimes we reflect the reality we're living, in order to examine it because of our hopes to change it, and other times we twist reality into what we wish it was...so basically, yeah, you're correct.

Great write.
I enjoyed reading it, and the thought processes that accompanied it - depressing as some of them were.

p.s.
"akward, especially in regards to this kinda stuff." [awkward]

[Wulfstan Crumble]

All we know about Socrates comes from the writing of Plato. Sometimes i think Plato just invented Socrates to have someone to talk to while writing. Maybe he was the first to write down that perfect conversation.

I totally feel this piece, where you are coming from. It was a stream of pure emotion and consciousness. As a kid i channelled it into wargaming and Dungeons and Dragons but as i got older and began to read more widely i had fantastical dreams. Once i was asked to write a play a gateway was opened and now stories pour out. I dont know if it replaces my reality but it could be a coping mechanism, a way to enjoy the things you want to enjoy or communicate about the world...or just tell a good story. nice write, hope you found it theraputic.

[hazeleyes]

i like your piece. I totally agree with you on this.