Oscar Wilde once said, “Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.” Writing as an art can’t be taught, and even though Creative Writing courses and workshops undoubtedly help writers grow, writing is a solitary process, and it’s up […]
For some reason. I just it justified and it would maybe benefit people to know the shit that sits on my shelves. That’s why your post has been pretty funny.. Not the post itself, but the timing of it. I even mentioned to a friend last night “I picked my favourite books. Look at the titles. Why do I have to be so damn weird lol bruh”
Even though I’m a trained English teacher, English is actually my least favourite subject to teach. I love English (text and writing, that is. English is the language I know. I am lousy with languages… lameo, huh) but I hate the curriculum. I hate how it’s taught….
I was chatting with Emmerleener a bits back (before the psychotic “held and escorted on the ambulance” lame ass shit in September) and she thought it was hilarious that I don’t want to write because I don’t want English teachers to get their grubby mitts on it and kill whatever bastard deformed baby I birth from my terrible words. She thought it was a riot because I’m an English teacher…
- it was lower on fees due to being a national priority. It was be a teacher or a nurse. I hate poop so I wasn’t going to touch anyone. I’d rather wrangle figurative shit and real shit.
- we live in an english speaking country. thus my choice for english. If I had know that maths, science or tas subejcts were in want then I would have gone with one of those subjects.
I know how to read and write. I’ve never really had a passion for anything… everything was a take it or leave it sort of thing… I dunno. I’m a psychotic manic pixie dream girl. But the stuff of nightmares. So.. technically, it’s still an apt trope title… hmm…
I… hmm… Let me think of this a moment. Where do I want to go with my writing from here?
I totally break all of the rules because I just type as my thoughts come to my head. And people say “don’t you meditate? You probably should…” and I’m like dude, my meditation is being free to just blah my thoughts onto the page. And it is from there that I read my subconscious and every mistake and every rhyme. That is where I am able to read the signs of the divine because I just automatically write.
And through this incessant and nonstop whirlpool of word vomit and my endless spinning and spinning and spinning (like a shitty fidget spinner)… the non stop figurative movement I was able to see beyond sight beyond and speak of the worlds both between and beyond our silhouettes and umbrage. The eclipse and moving shadows and writings on the wall…
And really I have no idea what I’m even doing at all. I don’t care that I don’t know (but I really do care a lot). Because I will get over my hurt (or I won’t but it doesn’t matter to you). I just care about people. People I give a shit about.
That’s why.. even though I talk about myself a damn lot, it’s really because I don’t know how else to talk about everyone I know..? There are a bunch of them, and we’ve all had our fun changing our names and histories and titles and responsibilities. We play games, we live life, we just DO AND NOT IN THE SPOTLIGHT. Although when I was young all I ever wanted to be was in the spotlight…. because then I could pretend to be anyone else who wasn’t me… And if they clapped and cheered and laughed and sneered, at least they were engaged and I meant something to them, even for the briefest of moments. Even for enacting a lie. At least they noticed me and didn’t make me want to die or cry…
- “we found you in a bin, and felt sorry for you that no one wanted you.”
- “your dad was the one who wanted you.”
- “why can’t you be like Jamie or Kathryn or Christine? Jamie does x.. Kathryn does y.. Christine does z… Why can’t you be everyone else instead?”
- “I’m not putting you down. I’m just telling you to be better.”
- “your dad was right. you never cared about anyone except yourself.”
So I know I’ll never be good enough. I am doomed to fail everything. I can be that example to others though, help other people out of their darkness by being that force that pushes them out into the light, away from the darkness inside their hearts… that’s my place to hide… no one need to stay there in their hollow of pain, because I will push them on forwards into the daylight for light and love again and again.
I just then crawl back into my cage and sit quietly, try not to cry, and wait for their hearts to jump and race as they get excited and maybe I can come out and maybe I can play. I miss out on so much… I’m so alone.. and forgotten… But… It’s okay. I just have to keep talking. That’s my company. My friends. My friend. Me. My made up voices that I pretend are in my head. But I have no voices in my head, they’re all just “self voices”
I’m not crazy. I am veritably sane. Just.. sad. And lame. And boring. And nothing. There is nothing to me except what others reflect in my mirror and then I can pretend to be them…
Because I said to Cristian that I would write about not having any books about writing. And here is an example why I hate writing. Because I suck. And it makes me sad. So I’d rather talk. Then I can forget the words that I said and the thoughts that I meant and forget them all as they exit my head.
Categories: Mundane trite