A Waste of Trees

This is somewhere in-between a poem and a piece of prose--a recollection of thoughts.

“Write your truth.”

They tell me this over and over, hoping that I reach some kind of conclusion. Experience some sort of epiphany, some moment of clarity.

And so I live my life in a frenzy, going through the motions and saying all the right things; I say “God bless you” and hold doors open; and at the end of the day I try my best not to complain. I run around with guys and girls alike, befriending anyone who can make me laugh, and then we break laws together. Sometimes. Other times we talk about the mysteries of the universe and why we, as a collective unit, are here--why we have been sent as homo sapiens sapiens and what our purpose is.

It’s at the tip of my tongue, what my purpose is--but sometimes I forget, and the words die in my mouth. I live day-to-day without getting killed (coming quite close at times) and then I pull the covers up to my chin, breathe a huge sigh of relief.

I guess the point of this--writing in endless, yet grammatically correct sentences--is to share with you, dear reader, what’s running through my silly head.

One thing I’ve realized, through hundreds of attempts, is that it doesn’t matter how many words you jumble together. In fact, it doesn’t matter that you’re jumbling words together at all, if you’re doing just that. Recollecting things you’ve learned. If you aren’t writing truthfully, you aren’t writing at all. By blocking your audience from your true self, you already put yourself at a disadvantage. Your words become heavy; unnecessary. A break of silence. Letters mashed together, page after page.

A waste of trees.

My biggest fault then, as a writer and as a human, is constructing sentences without truth. Writing just to say that I did; writing to “up” the word count. Although I call myself a writer, I merely compose non-sense and then wonder why there’s no fulfilment. Why the passion faded through me and throughout my life. In all areas there was a “drought” of passion. Of energy, of electricity. I tried connecting pieces that were never meant for one another, and then blamed God for my misfortune. Cursing the sky, I asked Him why I felt so incomplete; I asked Him to bless me with a miracle.

That’s what led me here. For the first time in a long time, my pen feels on fire--yet I can’t, for the life of me, set it down. My mind eases. My heart pours onto these pages: never hesitating, never second-guessing. Taking the nearest exit and rolling with it, awaiting lands unimaginable.

All those nights I thought about my life and tried to pinpoint when, exactly, “it all went wrong.” I wronged myself when I put up walls, when I feared what others thought. I ruined myself when I stopped being myself. Only then did I deprive myself of real and true fulfilment.

From now on, in writing and in life, I will stop speaking anything other than the truth. I will live my life to the beat of my own heart, not others’ criticism. It never mattered what I accomplished or achieved, since my words weren’t authentic. I never closed my eyes, asked myself what gave me goosebumps. When I cheated the reader--it’s exactly when I cheated myself.

I robbed myself out of happiness.

The world can strip everything from you--the person you love, your job, your house--but if you’re living in truth, you will still feel satisfied. You will not depend on anything for happiness because you, beautiful soul, are honest. You listen to yourself and what gives you purpose. And, when you feel yourself start to sink, you remember that you put your all into it. “It” meaning absolutely anything.

When my eyes slide open, and I watch the light filter through my windows, I will call it morning. Stretching, I will go to the kitchen, make myself coffee, and call this a new start. I will pick up a photograph of the one I loved and lost and call this despair. Then I will rip it into a thousand little pieces and call this process letting go.

Impulsively, I will gather all my notebooks. I will find which stories are superficial and throw them into the flames. An arson of my own creation...but not an arson of my soul. Simultaneously, all the situations never meant for me catch fire; I watch as their flames wave good-bye.

I wave back.

Art, when honest, is the mind’s face-expression. I can display all my emotions and thoughts without even meaning to; I can put you in my perspective, let you meet my internal conflicts. Line after line, I can open my world up for you, let you feel to the fullest extent. Unlike reality, art knows no restrictions or mercy. Art can be wild and crude and yet so, so beautiful.

A single word can leave a man scratching his head for hours.

Author's Note

What do you think? This was completely raw and open; I wanted to be real on this one.

Reviews

[Chris]

I really did take the time to "listen" as my mind viewed this page - all the way, no shortsteps, eye or attention jumps. Enthusiasm, personal view, reasoned presentation, and a host of other declarative positionings lead to a soft smile as I finished the piece.

"What do I think?" The problem about cliches are - they're real: Life happens; Life isn't Fair; Evil is real; Good doesn't win just because of its being Good; Bad things DO happen to Good People; Pain hurts; there really is loneliness and silence; few can handle or even deal with unvarnished truth; hungry is NOT about choosing between things you have, it's about you have nothing; People WILL take away your pride, your heart, every THING you value; we very, very seldom control our existence ...BUT we always make choices - ready or not for the consequences.

And I am NOT putting you down or selling you short ...a soft smile remember... all of us were right where you're at. Some of us even survived to be right where we are. I think you will to - survive to be right where you choose to be. It takes guts and being real - with yourself as well as with others.

Laters,
Chris