I’ve never really quite noticed before. I don’t believe it is of ubiquitous quality, yet it pervades the space for many who partake. I’m also uncertain as to whether or not this applies to everyone but here goes; writing is lonely.
I know, I know. What I’ve just posited is probably obvious to most. ‘Where else does the writing (or any artistic expression) come from if not the self?’ True. This isn’t groundbreaking by any means. It’s just that I personally haven’t come to grips with the solitude that accompanies the practice. Now, that isn’t to say that this is a detriment to the experience as a whole. In fact, it’s necessary to create that sort of internal space in order to parse through our thoughts and properly convey them on paper.
Yet, this still saddens me. I am already of the belief that life can be quite lonely as is. If I’m doing something that requires mental isolation, am I not exacerbating a problem that I consider a universal pitfall of the human condition? A contradiction to my previous statements, I’m aware. It’s bittersweet really.
My headphones, wholly covering my lobes as to provide the best noise cancellation possible, sings to me a foreign melody in a foreign language with jazzy overtures and sugary vocals which catalyzes my bobbing shoulders in rhythm with its beat. I sit shirtless, stomach flab reaching over my boxers but not quite enough to touch my seat. My cinnamon toothpick dissuades my former writing habits, which was a humdrum cocktail of whiskey and minty cigarello buds atop a loaded pellet rifle without its safety latch in place. The room retains visibility via my shiny monitor I keep in transparent white, with a glow that perforates my lenses. However, everything that the light does not touch remains in a purer dark accentuated by contrast. Did I mention that I’m alone in this room, locked door and all?
Here, I clumsily ladle my thoughts into an expired soup and call it introspection, aka self-therapy aka poetry aka writing aka art. When I write I feel good. But when I finish, I look around, and it’s just me and a dirty keyboard. Isn’t writing swell?
Merpdo Stories 