Energy cannot be created or destroyed. Only converted to other forms. No conversion is ever completely efficient
I try and create poetry. But I am not. Poetry is not a complete break, only converting my mind's-eye-visions onto paper. And there is an inevitable loss at hand. Every time, there's fractions and filaments of this broken down feeling that get lost in the wind. Lost through hesitations, however momentary. The inspiration dissipating in the heat expended as my hand lingers, fingers hover. And my works are never whole. Never a complete transition.
It's a matter of minimizing the loss, trying to capture as much energy of the mind in the binding paper and phrases. The key lies in keeping the transition quick. It takes an adept soul to channel it easily, efficiently. But no one is ever perfect. And the atmosphere is full of forgotten thoughts that escaped word's vices. Sometimes, when I find myself thick in the cloud of another's lost sentiments, I can pick them up, reuse them. Borrowing their style for a little while. I slip into their idiosyncrasies, their form and their rhythm. I use it to my advantage, steeling phrases pulled from thin air, words steeped in a stranger's voice. It's dead handy. When all my inspiration's lost and hung stiff in the air, archaic and aloof, I can draw off the lost feelings of others, and use them as my own.
But I lose myself in it all. Lost my perception of identity. Who am I when I find my writing betrays no ideas of my own?
I try and create poetry. But I am not. Poetry is not a complete break, only converting my mind's-eye-visions onto paper. And there is an inevitable loss at hand. Every time, there's fractions and filaments of this broken down feeling that get lost in the wind. Lost through hesitations, however momentary. The inspiration dissipating in the heat expended as my hand lingers, fingers hover. And my works are never whole. Never a complete transition.
It's a matter of minimizing the loss, trying to capture as much energy of the mind in the binding paper and phrases. The key lies in keeping the transition quick. It takes an adept soul to channel it easily, efficiently. But no one is ever perfect. And the atmosphere is full of forgotten thoughts that escaped word's vices. Sometimes, when I find myself thick in the cloud of another's lost sentiments, I can pick them up, reuse them. Borrowing their style for a little while. I slip into their idiosyncrasies, their form and their rhythm. I use it to my advantage, steeling phrases pulled from thin air, words steeped in a stranger's voice. It's dead handy. When all my inspiration's lost and hung stiff in the air, archaic and aloof, I can draw off the lost feelings of others, and use them as my own.
But I lose myself in it all. Lost my perception of identity. Who am I when I find my writing betrays no ideas of my own?
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