It feels like an eternity ago when I felt that way…

19 May

…stolen from my offline journal entries some time ago.

Sometimes it feels like I’m falling deeper and deeper into the emptiness within me and no matter what words I throw into it to try to fill it up, nothing happens.

Reading the works of people so much better than me sometimes inspires me, but it also sometimes produces despair, because all my meaningless mutterings fall so short of what they are now, and what I am.

Putting thoughts to words that express the thoughts so beautifully… they write what I have struggled and still am struggling to even vaguely comprehend in my head.

It is as if their words have torn away my veils, leaving behind my hungry desire, to be like them.

I can see it in what they write; it is almost like a spell, a glamour, cast upon an almost random collection of words that have so beautifully and neatly been formed together in a sentence that you could never imagine it otherwise, that draws you into the mind of the author, into the worlds he or she saw as the words were written.

Something in me strives towards it, yearns towards their light, but at the same time, it is crushed by despair because I don’t know how can I ever be that way.

And I write.

I write even when the inadequacy and the pain fills me. I write even though I know, and even more damningly, feel that what I am doing is lower than, even more pitiful than a failed imitation of what I admire.

I write, because even in my own writings, sometimes I catch the faintest glimmer that could just barely be a tiniest similarity to what has enchanted and bewitched me so many times before.

And I write.

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Peter Galen Massey

Haiku, Book Reviews, Commentary & The Occasional Nonsense

bottledworder

easy reading is damn hard writing

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