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I seem to remember a time, when my writing style was a little different to what it is now. I used to know, have always known, that love is brought about by simply a combination of the right timing, the right words, and the right gestures.
There is no such thing as love at first sight. That's infatuation, or simply lust.
But that's straying from my point. My point is, I remember a time when I used to write love letters. I've never been renouned for my ability to write, so I even surprised myself when I wrote my first love letter. Metaphors comparing stars and oceans with something physical and tangible related to the person in the context of the letter. An endless, yet never boring narrative of my feelings.
The love letters got across the messages I was trying to convey. A thousand words to say "I miss you" or "I love you". They say a picture paints a thousand words, but a well chosen thousand words paints a whole exhibition of visual and emotional material.
The love letters "worked" if such a thing can be said. The letters received in reply were quite plainly in awe of what I had written. And what I had written was sensitive, without being soppy or coming across too strong. The words had their effect, and the love was returned.
I can't write love letters any more. As soon as pen hits paper or fingers hit keys, darkness clouds every thought on it's way from chemical brain reaction to tangible words on the screen. I've tried to put together something resembling one of my past glories, but the words won't come out. I can write for days of hatred, pain and suffering, but I'll be damned to write a single paragraph explaining that I miss someone.
I know when I lost the ability. The final letter I sent with anything approaching sentiment written in it was the final damnation on the lost love that had ruined me and brought me close to suicide. It was the final chapter on the most lethal drama of my life to date, and from there my mind closed it off so that I could never again be brought that close to something so foolish. Being open-hearted had brought me to the very gates of ruin, with the metaphorical key in the lock ready to turn and invite the tide of despair unto myself.
As a lasting result, I have a general lack of empathy. I quite blatantly don't care what happens to most of the world. I'll point out morals and ethics in a debate, because I know that while I don't feel it, there should be some degree of compassion there. Some love for my fellow man. But generally there isn't.
I still have the capacity to love, that much is obvious to me. But while the amount of love I have is enough to satisfy myself, it is very possible that it is insufficient to sate everyone in my life who needs it. Therefore, many people in my life are objects of neglect, at least from me.
The general lesson is that while it is a wonderous sensation to be struck by Cupid's arrow, when the shaft is pulled out again, it leaves a hole in your heart than will be filled by clotted blood and scars that never fully heal.
I guess, ultimately, I have a communication when it comes to love issues. Which isn't to say that I'm a macho bloke who doesn't want to talk love and happiness because it's not virile enough to suit my style. I quite simply CAN'T communicate on that level, and I forsee this becoming a problem in forthcoming years.
Just thught I would share that. In a writing mood today.
There is no such thing as love at first sight. That's infatuation, or simply lust.
But that's straying from my point. My point is, I remember a time when I used to write love letters. I've never been renouned for my ability to write, so I even surprised myself when I wrote my first love letter. Metaphors comparing stars and oceans with something physical and tangible related to the person in the context of the letter. An endless, yet never boring narrative of my feelings.
The love letters got across the messages I was trying to convey. A thousand words to say "I miss you" or "I love you". They say a picture paints a thousand words, but a well chosen thousand words paints a whole exhibition of visual and emotional material.
The love letters "worked" if such a thing can be said. The letters received in reply were quite plainly in awe of what I had written. And what I had written was sensitive, without being soppy or coming across too strong. The words had their effect, and the love was returned.
I can't write love letters any more. As soon as pen hits paper or fingers hit keys, darkness clouds every thought on it's way from chemical brain reaction to tangible words on the screen. I've tried to put together something resembling one of my past glories, but the words won't come out. I can write for days of hatred, pain and suffering, but I'll be damned to write a single paragraph explaining that I miss someone.
I know when I lost the ability. The final letter I sent with anything approaching sentiment written in it was the final damnation on the lost love that had ruined me and brought me close to suicide. It was the final chapter on the most lethal drama of my life to date, and from there my mind closed it off so that I could never again be brought that close to something so foolish. Being open-hearted had brought me to the very gates of ruin, with the metaphorical key in the lock ready to turn and invite the tide of despair unto myself.
As a lasting result, I have a general lack of empathy. I quite blatantly don't care what happens to most of the world. I'll point out morals and ethics in a debate, because I know that while I don't feel it, there should be some degree of compassion there. Some love for my fellow man. But generally there isn't.
I still have the capacity to love, that much is obvious to me. But while the amount of love I have is enough to satisfy myself, it is very possible that it is insufficient to sate everyone in my life who needs it. Therefore, many people in my life are objects of neglect, at least from me.
The general lesson is that while it is a wonderous sensation to be struck by Cupid's arrow, when the shaft is pulled out again, it leaves a hole in your heart than will be filled by clotted blood and scars that never fully heal.
I guess, ultimately, I have a communication when it comes to love issues. Which isn't to say that I'm a macho bloke who doesn't want to talk love and happiness because it's not virile enough to suit my style. I quite simply CAN'T communicate on that level, and I forsee this becoming a problem in forthcoming years.
Just thught I would share that. In a writing mood today.
Hmm, feel the same way sometimes. I think a better vocabulary would help a lot of the time. Or maybe a bigger langague?
I have an entirely different, yet similar problem. In fact, it's just shown itself in the opening sentence; do you see what it is?
I have a near total inability to express what I'm really trying to say in words.
I know what I'm thinking, and I know what I mean, but actual words that explain it don't come out very well. I re-read my 75 minutes post earlier, and I've decided I don't like it. It says the words but lacks the meaning of what I really intended to get across.
I'd say something more, but now I don't know what I'm actually trying to say.
I have a near total inability to express what I'm really trying to say in words.
I know what I'm thinking, and I know what I mean, but actual words that explain it don't come out very well. I re-read my 75 minutes post earlier, and I've decided I don't like it. It says the words but lacks the meaning of what I really intended to get across.
I'd say something more, but now I don't know what I'm actually trying to say.
So write what you feel.
Maybe it's not much help, but if what you write is genuine I guess that's how it has to be.
Maybe beginning to speculate here, but recently you've not had anyone create those old emotions in you, the ones you used to write from?
But when someone who inspires those old feelings does come along, and I'm pretty sure they will, someone to whom those words will be true, I'd guess that feeling they inspire will be fuel enough for your work.
If it's not then the words would be lies anyway.
And the whole point is that they need to be true. Right?
I remember hearing about some great artist, who every morning would shake as he painted, for fear that he'd lost the ability to paint. During the day he'd gradually get better as he regained confidence in his ability.
Maybe you're working on a slower cycle, but have faith, when the time is right I'm sure you'll get it back.
That's my thoughts anyhow.
Maybe it's not much help, but if what you write is genuine I guess that's how it has to be.
Maybe beginning to speculate here, but recently you've not had anyone create those old emotions in you, the ones you used to write from?
But when someone who inspires those old feelings does come along, and I'm pretty sure they will, someone to whom those words will be true, I'd guess that feeling they inspire will be fuel enough for your work.
If it's not then the words would be lies anyway.
And the whole point is that they need to be true. Right?
I remember hearing about some great artist, who every morning would shake as he painted, for fear that he'd lost the ability to paint. During the day he'd gradually get better as he regained confidence in his ability.
Maybe you're working on a slower cycle, but have faith, when the time is right I'm sure you'll get it back.
That's my thoughts anyhow.
I read this, and I thought about it. Just wanted you to know.
I'm not sure what my reaction to is yet.
I'm not sure what my reaction to is yet.
I seem to remember a time, when my writing style was a little different to what it is now. I used to know, have always known, that love is brought about by simply a combination of the right timing, the right words, and the right gestures.
There is no such thing as love at first sight. That's infatuation, or simply lust.
But that's straying from my point. My point is, I remember a time when I used to write love letters. I've never been renouned for my ability to write, so I even surprised myself when I wrote my first love letter. Metaphors comparing stars and oceans with something physical and tangible related to the person in the context of the letter. An endless, yet never boring narrative of my feelings.
The love letters got across the messages I was trying to convey. A thousand words to say "I miss you" or "I love you". They say a picture paints a thousand words, but a well chosen thousand words paints a whole exhibition of visual and emotional material.
The love letters "worked" if such a thing can be said. The letters received in reply were quite plainly in awe of what I had written. And what I had written was sensitive, without being soppy or coming across too strong. The words had their effect, and the love was returned.
I can't write love letters any more. As soon as pen hits paper or fingers hit keys, darkness clouds every thought on it's way from chemical brain reaction to tangible words on the screen. I've tried to put together something resembling one of my past glories, but the words won't come out. I can write for days of hatred, pain and suffering, but I'll be damned to write a single paragraph explaining that I miss someone.
I know when I lost the ability. The final letter I sent with anything approaching sentiment written in it was the final damnation on the lost love that had ruined me and brought me close to suicide. It was the final chapter on the most lethal drama of my life to date, and from there my mind closed it off so that I could never again be brought that close to something so foolish. Being open-hearted had brought me to the very gates of ruin, with the metaphorical key in the lock ready to turn and invite the tide of despair unto myself.
As a lasting result, I have a general lack of empathy. I quite blatantly don't care what happens to most of the world. I'll point out morals and ethics in a debate, because I know that while I don't feel it, there should be some degree of compassion there. Some love for my fellow man. But generally there isn't.
I still have the capacity to love, that much is obvious to me. But while the amount of love I have is enough to satisfy myself, it is very possible that it is insufficient to sate everyone in my life who needs it. Therefore, many people in my life are objects of neglect, at least from me.
The general lesson is that while it is a wonderous sensation to be struck by Cupid's arrow, when the shaft is pulled out again, it leaves a hole in your heart than will be filled by clotted blood and scars that never fully heal.
I guess, ultimately, I have a communication when it comes to love issues. Which isn't to say that I'm a macho bloke who doesn't want to talk love and happiness because it's not virile enough to suit my style. I quite simply CAN'T communicate on that level, and I forsee this becoming a problem in forthcoming years.
Just thught I would share that. In a writing mood today.
There is no such thing as love at first sight. That's infatuation, or simply lust.
But that's straying from my point. My point is, I remember a time when I used to write love letters. I've never been renouned for my ability to write, so I even surprised myself when I wrote my first love letter. Metaphors comparing stars and oceans with something physical and tangible related to the person in the context of the letter. An endless, yet never boring narrative of my feelings.
The love letters got across the messages I was trying to convey. A thousand words to say "I miss you" or "I love you". They say a picture paints a thousand words, but a well chosen thousand words paints a whole exhibition of visual and emotional material.
The love letters "worked" if such a thing can be said. The letters received in reply were quite plainly in awe of what I had written. And what I had written was sensitive, without being soppy or coming across too strong. The words had their effect, and the love was returned.
I can't write love letters any more. As soon as pen hits paper or fingers hit keys, darkness clouds every thought on it's way from chemical brain reaction to tangible words on the screen. I've tried to put together something resembling one of my past glories, but the words won't come out. I can write for days of hatred, pain and suffering, but I'll be damned to write a single paragraph explaining that I miss someone.
I know when I lost the ability. The final letter I sent with anything approaching sentiment written in it was the final damnation on the lost love that had ruined me and brought me close to suicide. It was the final chapter on the most lethal drama of my life to date, and from there my mind closed it off so that I could never again be brought that close to something so foolish. Being open-hearted had brought me to the very gates of ruin, with the metaphorical key in the lock ready to turn and invite the tide of despair unto myself.
As a lasting result, I have a general lack of empathy. I quite blatantly don't care what happens to most of the world. I'll point out morals and ethics in a debate, because I know that while I don't feel it, there should be some degree of compassion there. Some love for my fellow man. But generally there isn't.
I still have the capacity to love, that much is obvious to me. But while the amount of love I have is enough to satisfy myself, it is very possible that it is insufficient to sate everyone in my life who needs it. Therefore, many people in my life are objects of neglect, at least from me.
The general lesson is that while it is a wonderous sensation to be struck by Cupid's arrow, when the shaft is pulled out again, it leaves a hole in your heart than will be filled by clotted blood and scars that never fully heal.
I guess, ultimately, I have a communication when it comes to love issues. Which isn't to say that I'm a macho bloke who doesn't want to talk love and happiness because it's not virile enough to suit my style. I quite simply CAN'T communicate on that level, and I forsee this becoming a problem in forthcoming years.
Just thught I would share that. In a writing mood today.