nanobetty's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- portrait of the writer It makes her glow with nausea, almost radioactive, to know these things. She knows how the creative mind works. Inspiration from gorgeous dark muses; sex and love personified. The constant desire to be both saved and the savior all at once. She has read the poetry and heard the songs of many men, spewing odes of both amor and hatred. Save for a handful of half-hearted attempts, none have ever been about her. That burns like hot lemon tea on the tongue. She is comic relief, a doe-eyed songbird and a pleasant fuck. She may even be someone who is hated and/or loved – but she is too commonplace, too milquetoast to be a catalyst for a lyric, let alone an epic. Macaroni and cheese is churning in her stomach as she realizes that no one writes about her in the late hours of the night. She’s no substitute for caffeine. Better than some, but not as good as most, she is a writer, too. Weaving words out of thin air and recycling heartache from last week or last decade. Describing the “happy” has never been her forte’, of course, but she continues to try. Perfection is not attainable in life nor in prose, but grasping a perfect line here and there is certainly do-able. She likes to collect them, like fireflies in a jar on hot summer nights in the early 1980s. Childlike and naïve in her visions and emotions; her heart flickers those little messages, in hopes that her chosen one can crack the morse-like code. If only she had the true talent of those great songwriters and poets, she’d be performing and making dedications in a “do unto others” style. What she wanted, and never received, she’d give. But her fingers are unable to glide down strings or create the chord progressions she hears in her mind. And the likelihood that her words would be embraced at a spoken-word gathering is slim-to-none. It is only in her mind where she shares her soul in these ways to acceptance, applause and adoration. It is only in her mind where the feedback would be positive, the dedications appreciated, and the feelings reciprocated. This routine has been going on for years and years. Piles of notebooks, half-filled with various experimental styles. Boxed away with pieces of her heart, broken off from her sleeve. Online journals, blogs and projects – some still going strong, some long abandoned. Evolution of a woman looking for a home for her heart; somewhere to belong. 12:46 p.m. - 2006-07-15 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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