handwriting

Writing by Hand

There is mystery behind not knowing what words come next when hand writing. More difficult to come by when typing. The slow paced nature of writing by hand leaves mystery to uncover, even for the writer.

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There’s a pleasant seduction behind the ink of a pen. Something about not knowing how long until “the surprise” or “the point” lands on the page is alluring. Even knowing where the work will go isn’t enough. The casually paced process is designed to gradually expose.

An arousing lust, flirty and curious for the next words, drives the ideas forward. As if it smiles back tempting possibilities and teasing wants. A sexy little dance, while motionless, wiggles in the back of one’s mind as a playful draw for more proceeds.

Biting a lip, dragging the pen across the page with delicate hands to guide purpose with care. Ever-so-gentle and crafted a letter at a time, the love filled spiral of intrigued pries. Digging up the fertile soil in search of seeds. Fascinated by the limitless capacity of imagination.

Turned on by the reckless direction, starved and animalistic.

A raw, dangerous and unpredictable monster dressed in ink is the hand written narrative.

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Faded Patterns

It’s hard to deal with change. But it’s hard to deal with change only because we believe it’s hard to deal with change. Change is impossible..

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Troubled by freedom. The thought of it.

The cage opens and the creature, too scared to leave, quivers at the door.

Long within the bar box. The concept of walking the grass is nauseating.

Overwhelming to not know the other side of the hill.

Perhaps a storm lives there.

Although no phobia for water, there is fear of getting wet.

Never once does it occur to raise the half empty glass to the crying sky.

One of the paintings is crooked and I can’t stop looking.

Jekyll in the lab, but hide when there’s no distraction.

Rhythm was the meditation.

Songs no longer play with open eyes.

Abandoning systems to rise above.

The realization, that which was left was but a fraction of the picture.

Safe outside the cage. Just a bigger box out there.

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Loosen The Grip

The most difficult challenge a writer faces is learning to be less critical of themselves. To allow the work to stand on its own. Learning when to stop editing themselves and how to let go of the work when its time.

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Click, click, click… Typing away at the keyboard. Minutes morph into hours, then days, then weeks. Before too long, months have gone by. A hundred thousand words on a manuscript. The deadline for the first chapter is in a month. It’s time to edit that first chapter. And edit. And edit. And edit that first chapter.

Typing away at the keyboard. Minutes morph into hours, then days, then weeks. Before too long, a month has gone by. Ten thousand words edited to the fullest of my ability. All the little finalizations required get attention. That nervous shiver of whether or not something is going missed. Confidence is hard to have, but I know it has to be let...

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Breaking Up

Heartbreak is a natural part of the adult progression. Whether it's in love or generally in life, you'll experience humbling moments. Many of these moments will be easy to get over, but others, like a breakup, can last for the rest of your days.Here is a piece about having to let go of love. About heartbreak. About getting to know yourself.

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I go through certain periods of psychosis in which the voices make my choices.

I write.

I write.

I write in circles. I blind myself to reality and formulate strange incoherent, inconsistent, persistent, and dissonant insistent… thoughts.

I thought.

I thought I was something I’m not. I rot inside because my façade is all I’ve got.

I’m arrogant…

I’m bought.

I’ve got no image. Through my imagined magic I manage majesty. Anxiously, I go on. Apathy naturally pushes me gracelessly to move forward sluggishly.

I own nothing. A walking lie.

I try and try, but there isn’t a real me. There isn’t someone there to see. So I write.

I write.

I write. Understand, I don’t know why. I don’t understand. All I know is to try.

I’ve become…

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