Dug up from my olde Creative Writing Journal Part One
I was sorting things to throw out and things to keep in my room when I happened upon my old Creative Writing journal from way back in college. Whoa. I feel so old. Reading the snippets and exercises scribbled in chicken shit writing made me wonder why I wrote these in the first place. Avantgarde, my ass.
SILENCE
- Silence lives in a place that looks like the sea robbed of its phosporescent glow. Silence lurks in the deep, dreamless waters where it holds down, with its own slithering tentacles, Imagination.
- Silence is like fine sand sifted with fingers spread out. Silence is like the silhouette of a figure long gone.
THE UNKNOWN
- The Unknown lives in every person’s shadow, where every object in the universe takes up space with their own fears and secrets–the eclipse of their being. The Unknown knows, of course. It knows everything everyone does not want to know, for the favorable knowledge the universe holds are already specified, tagged, and identified. The Unknown eats the collective refuse of mankind, and loves it. The refuse would then be defecated from the Unknown’s bowels and turn into the monsters that lurk in men’s hearts.
- The Unknown is the greatest fear I have encountered, and will encounter in my existence, and at the same time I feel at peace in it’s embrace.
- The Unknown is like the mugger who sneaks up behind you and hits you on the head. You know something hit you but you’ll never know what it is.
- The Unknown is appealing because of the mere fact that it is unknown, making one guess for too long and may unintentionally strike up the answer to Life’s ultimate question, and the prospect leaves some hopefuls thinking, thinking, thinking, and thinking…Not me, though.
SHAME
- Shame lives in a place that looks like my old moth-eaten dress of more than ten years past. It is colored as black as sewer muck and smelled of ten year’s worth of stagnation. It knows the Unknown, and both of them guards my innermost secrets. It tears apart the shelter I built for myself, brick by brick.
- The weird thing about Shame is that everytime I face her, she plays dead.
- Shame is like a dead cockroach. Feared while still alive, even more so when it is rotting and dead.
FEAR
- Fear lives in a place that looks like my room. It’s safe, warm, and cozy. The only thing that troubles me (and trouble it is) is the world outside the door. He is a nurturing father, sheltering me from real and imaginary harm. Stunting my growth as a person, but not as human meat.
- Fear is the meter-thick wall that bars me from true happiness.
- Fear is like what I feel when I look into the mirror–no, refusing to look at the mirror–because I know I will not like what I see.
COURAGE
- Courage lives in a place that looks like the castle spire of my fantasies: set up high in the sky, against the backdrop of a beautiful, shimmering purple sunset, overseeing all that should be seen, looking out for things that can and should be conquered. He is the king over all. He wears black, and a magnificent red velvet cloak befitting a king. He knows what should be done and what should not be done. The only hindrance to his goal is his only subject, who may or may not carry out his wishes.
- Courage is like a very potent alcoholic drink that you refuse to drink, because of its taste. But you drink it anyway.
TRUST
- Trust lives in a place that looks just like my own body, where Trust sleeps. I try hard to wake her, but no matter how hard I nudge the child named Trust, she remains asleep. She curls in a fetal position inside the body’s heart, not doing what she’s supposed to.
- Trust is like a woefully naive child.
PASSION
- Passion lives in the heart of my own being. She is the one who makes me alive, pulls my strings, gives me a reason to live. She is the queen in tattered robes and wielding a brilliant platinum sword in her hand. She cannot be stopped, hers is the driving force within.
- Passion is the driving force.
- Passion is like a lighted match. Burns easily, burns out easily.
