Trying to write these days has been more than difficult; almost unnatural...But I'm a writer, right? Nah, prob not, just a vessel, who's chosen form of expression for an indefinite amount of time rather fancied the pen. But what to do in a world where pens and paper are but primitive tools to express primitive, thoughts? How am I supposed to feel a particular connection, a surge of warmth circulate through my tentacles of expression through a cold contraption, a mass produced contraption that's made my own handwriting unrecognizable to the portals of observation, otherwise known as my eyes. The connectors or synapses or whatevers between my emotions, thoughts and feelings and means of expressing the such are so...anti-social. My very own ideas have given me the cold shoulder...I suppose my fingertips haven't been getting enough circulation to feel their own warmth...to feel accompanied in the constant need or struggle to express. It's almost juvenile in a sense...narcissistic. A need to be recognized, acknowledged, for discovering or just unveiling the clusterfuck of sensations that most likely exist in us all...But I, said it first...and so eloquently, may I add. Maybe my ego is disappearing, maybe that's why implanting such words on a fixed medium seems so trivial amongst the greater scheme of things. Maybe I'm happier these days? since I don't have to talk to myself as much. Or maybe, my capacity for making words carry meaning has lost itself amongst the over-saturation of words primarily residing and bombarding our peripherals. Who's writing is this? I've never looped an 's' or rounded out an 'e' in such a manner. And for whatever reason, I don't care to change it. If the content of my words lack in their methods of expression, than their rogue appearance encrypts a message beyond conscious comprehension. At this very moment it makes me so happy to write as I please, without the authoritative intrusive red line that is spell-check. How can we grow if we don't make mistakes. How am I expected to flowfully spew out my inner most subconscious nuances, how can I expect for things to so organically 'slip' if consistently, my thoughts, are continually being invaded by that awful squiggly red line. I know what I meant to write. How can I learn the difference between me 3 seconds ago in that dimension over there, and the self-actualization that has occurred from the second I crossed out that word or rewrote the same word four times over again because as I crossed, underlined, circled, scribbled, I actually figured out, all by myself, what I actually meant...to say. Look how messy that sentence is...and I finished it in a just a few brief moments. Look, how much I learned in those few brief moments. I don't want to delete my thoughts. I want them refined, I want to SEE the growth. How else am I expected to truly identify with them otherwise. My energies, my words, my motivations, are real. Why toss them in the eternal abyss that is our computer's recycling bin. That's so...final. And that's just unrealistic, nothing about our existence is final nor permanent, so why deny yourself of the person you were 30 seconds ago. Connect to your scribbles, make love to your crooked letters, embrace your pen's confusion. It's why you're HERE. Why you probably understand yourself better now than you did at the beginning of this piece. Why now your curves and loops are far more grandiose, almost pompous, and why that panic attack has magically...disappeared. Take it out on the countless pages that lie beneath your fist. Embed yourself in its fibers. They're there to comfort you. To let you make mistakes and tell you....it's OK. Be rebellious, write LOUDLY. Make the ink SCREAM. Bet you can't quite do that in Text Edit. So...bland. I want to almost not be able to decipher my words because they appear so unconventionally drawn out...but KNOW exactly what they say because their personality is ALIVE! Because their context is a 3-D experience.
I've said enough...you get the point.
(©) 2011 by Jessica Freites
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