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Lately with my posting I feel like I’ve been forcing words. Using and abusing them in attempt to find out how I’m feeling. Like a canary in a mine, testing the air without any consideration to the vessel being used. Lately I haven’t been writing because I wanted to write, but because I wanted to feel – which I worry has translated in to wasted script.

This morning I spent my usual writing time reading about writing, about tragedy (as you can see by my chosen reblog below). It opened my eyes about the importance of what it means to write. To portray accuracy and depth, where as lately even though I am quite blunt and open about my confusion and my lack of direction, I still feel like I’ve fallen short.

I want to be honest, I want to be brutal with myself. I want to share all the hidden things that I don’t let the actual world see, only as words to be read. I don’t want to write to cure apathy I want to write to understand what the apathy is. Although apathy is by definition a lack of feeling, it is still a feeling nonetheless. Again, one of those humorous quirks of the English language I find ever so endearing.

I feel slightly disappointed at myself at this realisation, but at the same time glad I unraveled it. Because there was one point last night were I felt tired of this writing thing, felt like I’ve said everything I need to say because the words I was typing felt so contrived and empty. But now I think I realise that was just more what I was feeling. Nothing, I was feeling nothing. Except I didn’t acknowledge that sense of nothing as something to discuss, more of lack on substance that was boring and had nothing to say for itself. But maybe that’s why I was writing about nothing? The clues the human mind leaves scattered along the way that can only be deciphered by hindsight.

At this point, I’m going to make it my mission to keep on track. I live by the belief that the best way to learn is from your mistakes, and I’m not saying rambling on like an idiot before was a mistake but it was and is a development I want to improve upon.

Right now, I feel like talking about hindsight. About how it can be so utterly negative and painful and also be so enlightening that it can turn the darkest times into moments of brightness and clarity. How hindsight makes me feel guilty, how it can strenuously pour into my open wounds and manifest a pain unlike any other. How it has the nerve, the ability to accuse me, to say that I could of somehow stopped my dads death ‘if only I called him back straight away, everything would’ve been different…’

Yet it can also make me feel so proud, how every one of his friends and work colleagues came up to me after his funeral to tell me how much he talked about my sisters and I, how he was always so proud of us. All of it so overwhelming.

So now with my new outlook/understanding for words, I thought I’d share some from the pages of my favourite book, ‘The Book Thief’ Markus Zusak. Beautiful words about tragedy, because no matter how upsetting the topic, words still have a power to majestically flow through the mind of a reader and turn a scrunched up list of facts into an delicately folded paper swan of truth and understanding.

She leaned down and looked at his lifeless face and Leisel kissed her best friend, Rudy Steiner, soft and true on his lips. He tasted dusty and sweet. He tasted like regret in the shadows of trees and in the glow of the anarchist’s suit collection. She kissed him long and soft, and when she pulled herself away, she touched his mouth with her fingers…She did not say goodbye. She was incapable, and after a few more minutes at his side, she was able to tear herself from the ground. It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on…

Til next time x

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