Posted in Poetry

22) I’m Back. And Sorry. And Semi-Inspired. // People Are Paintings.

07.07.18.

11.50 pm

 

Hi. So it’s obviously been a while, and I obviously never finished that 20 Sundays blogging challenge thing last year (I was close, though *points accusing finger at vulnerable self*), and you obviously don’t care, BUT, I’m back (!) and even more uninspired than when I took a break from here!!! How uncanny, right??? I see you and your judgmental poker face and honestly, same bruh, same.

On a serious note, though, I really am at a complete loss of inspiration and trying to navigate my way through this ultimatum of creativity block where I can’t seem to bring myself to absolutely anything even remotely creative or cathartic or expressive (do any of them well, that is), whether it’s writing or art journaling or pseudo-photography or even just basic DIYs or doodling. So I figured I’d give my WordPress blog another try since it’s one of the only things I haven’t yet turned to in my attempt to fight this block, or at least survive as unscathed as I possibly can.

And so, here we are (again). But since I can’t seem to make/create things lately, I figured till I get to that point again, I’ll just type out some old poems of mine that I’d written in my very first journal and share some of them here and on my Instagram account. Hopefully, that’ll help me get into the rhythm of things again, even if slowly and steadily.

Since the poems are really old ones, though, they’re obviously even more haphazard, lame, and/or cringe-worthy than my more recent ones. But if you’ll bear with me through this process (my condolences if you do), that’d be really lovely of you.

So yeah, without further ado, here’s one of the aforementioned poems that I wrote sometimes last year, along with the vaguely described inspiration for it:

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The pseudo-inspiration behind the poem
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The original version of the poem
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The typed out version

 

As always, thanks for sticking around.

 

With lots of love & regards,

Vixen.

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Posted in 20 Sundays

17) 20 Sundays, Week 10 – A Weird Kind of Writer’s Block

14.10.17

11 pm

 

15.10.17.

4.51 pm

 

(I wrote most of this yesterday therefore there are two time stamps because, like I always say, extra is as extra does).

 

Something I’ve been meaning to do some sort of write up about on some sort of platform for a while now is how it feels to write by hand as opposed to typing pieces out, and I figured this is a good a platform as any to vent about that. So here’s a little excessive opening up and barfing of words because y not, amirite?

 

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I used to write poems and prose and letters and the like by hand all the time and the process of watching the ink mold into the form your fingers have directed is its own kind of therapeutic experience. I was even convinced I’d never be able to express myself fully by or feel as satisfied by typing my feelings out but, like all the things I always say ‘never’ about, I was wrong. And so I went through this sort of withdrawal from handwriting phase due to oversaturation where the vast majority of my thoughts were typed out in word documents and captions on social media and unnecessarily long posts on my blog and for a while I felt like my writing was much better than it’s ever been (which isn’t saying much but relatively speaking, it is) and that I was improving at a much faster rate than when I used to write by hand. I eventually got saturated by that too, though, and I started to miss the raw and wholesome feelings of writing my thoughts directly onto paper where all the spelling mistakes and cutouts and mess ups had just as much of an existence and presence as the final words themselves.

However, because it’s been so long since I’ve gotten absorbed into that process, I’m quite rusty at it now and it feels like I’m starting all over again, my fingers and mind and heart trying to recall what at some point they used to do so effortlessly and happily. So now I’m now going through this phase where any and everything I write is quite rough and broken, jagged at the edges and bumpy on the surface, and almost none of it really feels like me anymore. It’s a weird kind of writer’s block I guess, and I’m working through it as much as I can with as minimal frustration sessions and silent breakdowns as possible, but obviously, like all blocks and learning processes, it’ll take time.

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I just wanted to put out there the fact that a year ago I’d probably have given up on myself or at the very least I wouldn’t have allowed myself the time and space and vulnerability to consciously be okay with not being good at something I used to actually have a tiny bit of confidence in every now and then. But now I’m slowly yet surely learning that healing and learning and growing are as rough and raw and convoluted as my writing these days is, and that that’s okay. I have to love and respect myself enough to let myself pick up the pieces at my own pace and take as many baby steps and make as many mistakes as I need to get to a point where the plateau I reach is one of warmth and belonging rather than burning out and fading away.

 

And I’m probably going to have to go through feelings like these over and over again but the highs and lows are all part of something that is so much greater than the whole of my worries, so much more enriching than the days I feel down. And a lot of that sort of self-care journey involves being able to accept that I’m allowed to be sad and angry and lost sometimes because they’re all part of the road I’ve chosen to walk on. So even if the road is gross and bumpy and I want to take a different one most days, it’s the one I have to and need to take in order to reach where I’m headed. All I need are my own permission and an aspiring healthy relationship with my soul to do so; I just hope I’m able to at least enjoy the views on the way. Wish me luck!

 

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If you have any similar or even completely stories about a writer’s block, artist’s block, or something like that, please do share them in the comments! Maybe we can help each other out?

 

Regards,

V.

 

 

Posted in Poetry

4. I Still Write

31.05.17

09.00 pm

Ahhh, can’t believe it’s already the end of May. I learned a new word a week or two ago, ‘Zenosyne; the sense that time keeps going faster.’ So much depth and meaning in one word to the point where it perfectly describes my everyday thoughts and the strings that hold them. But I’m trying to not dwell too much on the despair side of things because what happens, happens, and I can only move forward from those steps taken [this is the part where I secretly laugh at myself because Lord knows I’m still going to be the defeatist who keeps berating herself for not having malt cake when she was craving it since she’s always craving it]. Anyway…

I’ve been having a sort of writer’s block these days, I guess? It’s not that I can’t write, it’s just that certain ways and things I used to write aren’t coming as naturally to me, especially poems which are, for lack of better words, often my everything. And that hurt a little because it felt like an emotional dull back ache that outstays its welcome, so I forced myself to write one yesterday no matter how unsatisfying it would feel when I was done. I’m also forcing myself to share it because while I’m not completely unhappy with it, there’s something about it that feels incomplete and lost and as part of the process of my transformation into the virtual sasquatch butterfly penguin hybrid creature I aspire to be, I’m making myself embrace such feelings. I’m slowly learning that all my behind the scenes, as flawed as they are, are the honest in me and I need to get off my high horse and accept that. So, yeah, here’s to letting narcissism take a back seat for as long as I can make it stay there [which is obviously not very long because pffft and because of who I am as a person]. Anyway 2.0…

I hope you enjoy the poem despite its faults. May your bread never be stale.

Regards,

V.

the aforementioned poem:

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Posted in Poetry

1. First Post! [insert siren noises for the cycle of lazy being briefly breached]

11th May, 2017

11.26 pm

I thought I’d try posting something witty that also treads along the lines of creepy, weird, and probably questionable as my first blog post, but it is a scientific fact that my brain melts after 11pm when it comes to being productive in any way or form, so instead I’ll just share a poem I wrote in February because y naught, amirite? I had also thought that I’d refrain from sharing my poems until I was at least a month into blogging because they more often than not take a darker turn than I intend for them to and that feels more personal and revealing than I’d like to admit, and because my poetry is often senseless and carelessly or awkwardly worded for the sake of satisfying my rhyming tendencies which are as if not more profound than my regular dessert cravings. In other words, they’re alarming and they may or may not be my perpetual guilty pleasure that I allow myself to indulge in as much as I can because again, y naught, rite?

So, yeah, if you’ve read this far till here, I’m grateful, and the unnecessary conclusion I’ll finish off with is that I really need to work on my rambling tendencies as well but anyone who knows me is well aware of the fact that me hating lasagna is more probable, and that’s saying a lot. Anyway, hope you have a lovely day. May your battery never be low in the absence of a charger.

Regards,

V.

P.S. I’d like to (not really) apologize for my more than mouthful sentences.

 

The aforementioned poem:

 

Post 1 - May 11th, 2017 Watermarked - Unparadigmed