Skip to main content

New message

I managed to come in right before the storm broke; that's lucky. It was cold this morning and it's only gotten steadily colder. Now it's raining, but I am very comfortable indoors with a raspberry chai.

I have not been comfortable with my creative self lately. I think it may be because I have begun to go into different directions and want to feel free to go in those directions, or any direction, because that for me is creativity, total freedom. I knew I was going to work on this today, so I thought about it a lot, and I realized that I've been making a lot of incorrect assumptions about how I used to be.

For one thing, I have always struggled to express my inner workings and longings and really, I did not struggle more with this than in college. I was faced with many pressures inhibiting my freedom of expression with my environment, my peers, my life situation. Many things I wrote during that time were unadventurous, though I forced myself to write, and it was much more difficult than it is now.

The problem now is really a lot more positive. I believe I have gained the ground back that I lost in college, and I am ready to go further, but I really have no precedent. I am not satisfied creatively with only writing and slugging through trying to get my writing published. Having my work published legitimizes it, but I realize now that I am just not feeling that. Rather than force it as I did in college I'm ready to venture out and expand my modes of expression and free myself as much as possible from needing to fit into specified molds.

For one thing, I would be totally happy to write for this journal, as long as I live. It will be a legacy. It will continue on when I am gone, given the same certainties and uncertainties that print holds. I want to feel like I need an editor to channel my work into a polished piece, but I am just not interested in that right now. It may be that when I mature and feel more certain of my message, I will have some reason to make that effort.

I find there are other channels for my creative expression that have nothing to do with writing but also tell stories. One of these things is my photography. I have avoided putting that on this site for the most part because I didn't feel like it suited the purpose of Winter Light, but I have come to see this journal as a space for me to express myself as well as I can.

Popular posts from this blog

Snow White and the Prince

I dreamed in darkness, cold and alone. Phantasms shifted around me, frightening me, but I was powerless to escape them or even move, as I was sealed in a casket. I thought of the Queen, my Stepmother, and tears dripped from my eyes as I considered the quasi-poignant moments we had once shared, when we might have been considered to be close, when the Queen had nearly been a mother to me, and the face of love had shone radiantly upon me, before eclipsed again by the storms of Venus. I thought of the huntsman, stung to consider that my only friend had been poised to betray me, to kill me, and again in my mind I felt the horror of his shadow, of waiting while he came behind me, knowing there was no escape for me from a death he would inflict. My heart lifted as images of the Prince entered my mind, his grace atop a white-maned horse, always out of my reach, just beyond the words I longed to speak. If only there had been more time for us to fall in love. He might have saved me from those...

Where does it lie

I look out onto the yellow and brown vegetation beneath my window, at the castle-like buildings far away and wonder where do I lie in all of this? There was a time when I was unfettered. This was a time before I entered the working world, before I was independent. My heart was free as a bird when I was in college. I did not know what happiness I experienced in my creativity because I had never known different. In other aspects of my life I knew pain but my stories, sprung up lately from a gothic mist into an immersing Pre-Raphaelite painting, were a richness and the most beautiful thing I had ever known. That the most beautiful thing I knew to exist happened inside of me made me very happy, even though I didn't know it. Now I know the sun is setting, even though I can't see it, because the bank of brown, twisted trees and shrubs is lit gold, like a reflection from a golden chalice. Slowly, slowly it will fade until everything is a homogenous, uncertain gray. This is the nightma...

The day was described as unseasonably warm

The day is so beautiful, but I do not feel beautiful. I feel like a void. The world will not be any more beautiful if I go into the park and enjoy the sunshine. The birds will still sing whether I go or stay, and this person does not seem capable of feeling any kind of happiness. I have been going through old entries, and find the same things I have always found when doing this. I have the same feelings and interests as I always did, I feel the same pressures and struggles as ever. I have been tagging things, but it is a never-ending task. I have nearly 800 posts in this journal alone, to say nothing of paper journals and other notes on the Internet. I thought I would organize my notes because I do not feel capable of imbibing any kind of information or communicating anything of importance. However, I am tired. I did not sleep well last night. It is as though at some point years ago I lost some sleep, and I have been losing it ever since. I have a strange, lost feeling when I thi...