Friday, 24 August 2012

XV. Storyteller

I should stop wasting the time that I'm dedicating to writing this blog with my shameful laments about unrequited love. I'd like to exterminate the wellspring of hope that resides within me that one day I will see him again, perhaps an accidental bumping into on the street, where he will suddenly realise that he no longer wishes to live his life without me. And I have not one shred of evidence that supports this childish daydream. The contrary in fact. I have without a doubt been forgotten now, passed over, discarded from the mind. I obviously don't have much capacity for rejection. I conjure up these ridiculous reunion stories rather than accept that I spent months writing my heart onto a page for someone with naive abandon and came up against a burning red stop sign.

And I'm hard on myself about this inability to let go of the trashy romance novel dream. Wildly angry. I want to scratch it out with my findernails. Well, if I had some. My fingernails are ugly, bitten back things. Yet, it is very human, and I adore the literature of those who lose themselves in love. So I continue to circle around myself, loving, trying to forget, loving, trying to forget. One day this cycle will cease. Surely it won't perpetuate for too much longer. Time will dilute things. And my wellsping of hope cannot be eternal.

I'd like to instead use this time to create a story that helps and heals. To give someone that gift that I have recieved so many times in reading. I'm not sure whether I have the power or mind to do that. But I feel compelled to try. I've never wanted to build bridges, or work in a shop, or sell things, or count money, or drive buses, but I've always wanted to write, to see the less obvious truth of things, and to help people in a more spiritual or psychic way. A story teller.

I am afraid of trying of course, self doubt creeps in, what hardships have I really had to endure that give me the right to act as a voice for humanity, what do I know of life having never know hunger, or lasting pain or discrimination. But I suppose I don't have to have all the answers, and I don't need to reach every person. Narrow my aims, write something the resonates within me, that I think is beautiful, even if its sad and awkward, underdeveloped and poorly expressed, just to create something that is solid and firm, and starts and finishes and is complete. Like nothing else I have done in my life thus far. I have to stop sitting on this barbed wire fence. Its starting to get uncomfortable.

So I'll write a few ideas here and there include them amongst my Crossing Spain entries. No really, I will. I promise myself. 

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