After having spent a considerable amount of time gazing blank at this space here and the one within my skull, I'm half consumed by a lethargic indifference..the words seem so reluctant, so obstinate, so terribly meaningless. They seem useless, for what is it that I've felt and wished to say, that has not already been expressed? And expressed a thousand times more handsomely than this?
My words have been muddled, chasing my thoughts round and round the room above until they've surrendered to this devilish lethargy,night after night.
But not today.
Today,I'll write. However bizarre, however meaningless- for it seems to be working now.
The other day, I attended an introductory lecture on Modern Poetry, which categorically emphasized on the profound ambivalence that tormented these poetic souls. The constant battle between the will to express, and the scathing criticism of this very self. This, which dug little tunnels to the crevices of their minds, casting swaying shadows on the flowers they water, and the men they kill.
It is difficult to pull yourself together when your thoughts relentlessly scoff and butcher your feelings, when the profundity of what you feel is belittled by the apparently almighty mind. I'd not been able to realise that, the way I do now, although I was aware of its restless presence for a long time now.
I am however, yet to ascertain whether this clarity of thought and the ability to realise my feelings into words are at all, of any use.
A terribly worthless post. Please pass.
My words have been muddled, chasing my thoughts round and round the room above until they've surrendered to this devilish lethargy,night after night.
But not today.
Today,I'll write. However bizarre, however meaningless- for it seems to be working now.
The other day, I attended an introductory lecture on Modern Poetry, which categorically emphasized on the profound ambivalence that tormented these poetic souls. The constant battle between the will to express, and the scathing criticism of this very self. This, which dug little tunnels to the crevices of their minds, casting swaying shadows on the flowers they water, and the men they kill.
It is difficult to pull yourself together when your thoughts relentlessly scoff and butcher your feelings, when the profundity of what you feel is belittled by the apparently almighty mind. I'd not been able to realise that, the way I do now, although I was aware of its restless presence for a long time now.
I am however, yet to ascertain whether this clarity of thought and the ability to realise my feelings into words are at all, of any use.
A terribly worthless post. Please pass.
