A Short Philosophy on Writing
'The ‘great love’ that the ‘great writers’ write about, the Fitzgerald love, the Gatsby love, the Notebook love, the Shakespeare love, the Austen love, the Wilde love, they could write it because they opened the box.'
Writer A.B. May once said, ‘To write is to have conscious totality over yours thoughts, and pure awareness of how you see your world, and absolute control over how your pen expresses your universe and existence onto the page.’
I agree with this fully, for me, writing is how I find inner peace and how I make this world more palatable to the soul. I would struggle without writing; sometimes I get too full, and by that I mean that my mind is so cluttered I can barely speak. My ears feel like that have been filled with cotton wool and as I’m trying to hear myself I say thing that I don’t mean; but writing lets you say what you need to without hurting anybody. Because when you write, you can recreate, redesign, re-run and reimagine your situation, your dreams, your life, really. People underestimate this small power; it can change lives. That is the beauty of writing; it isn’t real, but it is real enough to change the life of at least the writer, and possibly someone who reads it.
Imagine; you have woken up from an intrinsic slumber, in a white room full of distractions; fingernail clippings pepper the floor, time is melting, Salvador Dali is in the corner whispering ‘unreal, surreal, unreal, the rhinoceros is love but so is God’, an artists sweet nothings, there are book cases full of books with no pages and no words and there is a table in the middle of the room.
On the table is a brown paper box.
Inside, you know are your shadows, your secrets, your darkest creativity, the grit of what makes you a writer, the best writer, a beautiful manic creator; but if you open it you will never see the world with simplicity, everything will be multicoloured and never black and white. You will live in your mind more than you will in the world, and your worth and being will rely on the written word; what will you do?
To write is to give emotions to the inanimate; to feel the weight that a wheel carrier, to conceptualise that it would be to be a brick in a wall, to be a speck of dust on the ground. That is your writers eye, it allows to be anyone, or anything, but it lives in the brown paper box.
‘To be a lightbulb;
a head on a chair, a shadow in the corner.
Imagine how it feels to actually be someone. To manipulate light, not just be the manipulated.
The universe is mad up of stories, not atoms.
The past is never static, but my soul is. The narrative of time is always shifting.
Photographs are just the subletting of history,
God this kitchen, what a place to be when you want to leave.
Judy Garland knew what was going to happen to her, do you?
I am the opaline of this room, the third eye of life.
Space, light, a paperclip, the moon is my makeup.
I, a double twinning Janus, a two faced belly of light and not light. It is the intimacy of life that you are never invited to, duplicity, duplicity, duplicity.
Catatonia; I can’t move but I am restless.
You only care for me when I am turned on, and in that way I am like a woman in this century.
To write is to fall in love. For even if you are lacking love in real life, you can channel love as a writer. You can make people who have never felt it, feel it. The ‘great love’ that the ‘great writers’ write about, the Fitzgerald love, the Gatsby love, the Sparks love, the Shakespeare love, the Austen love, the Wilde love, they could write it because they opened the box.
'I feel myself falling, falling, falling, falling, we are only lost in the world that we know. I was in a blind man’s state of mind, I was a slow mover when it came to love. But you dug into me, dug your fingernails deep and it was the most brilliant state of mind. And there we stayed, in the run down theatre of our dreams, we sat in the sky and created sound that started as a whisper and great into tones that changed the world we knew, into one that we belonged in, and were not lost in…all of the divine sounds trickling from our tongues. Lovers.’
Ultimately, writing gives you the power to express the crux of your soul to the world.
God was a complex being, and we are but extracts of his complexity. He gave birth to her under a pear tree, but demanded that she only ate grapes. It is not her fault, the blame is on her maker, that she exist as a paradox. She knew that surrealism would fuck with her social conscience, but she also wanted to be loved by everyone. She, a hedonistic diorama, a re-appropriation of social realism.She was too complex for the worlds tongue to palate. But Elysium was looming closer. So she exiled her soul and went on a solo journey to a place boundless to the sky and sea. But on the pilgrimage she discovered that there are great beings, archetypal, bigger than life itself. Ancient and more timeless than breath, and they live in the boundless sky. As stars. An epoch of constellations, the snake and the turtle, the sun, the dragon men, pieces, Gilgamesh, Capricorn, Angel Michael; the age of Aquarius. And while I wanted to join them, they told me to keep on Earth, as a beautiful silver goddess playing with seaweed in pure Japanese waters. And so Judas kissed Christ, I leant in and stayed alive…alive enough to eat pears from his tree.
To write is to open the brown paper box.
For the record,
not that it matters, but
A.B.May doesn’t exist, she is just a character of mine.
No need for footnotes there.