My last post was almost a full two years ago. That's understandable since I got into Tumblr. Well, I gave up Tumblr for Lent and so I have to find another blog to fill.
I read through some of my old poems, and I wish I could write something like those again. Lately my poems have felt rigid. They don't feel as flowing as they used to, like they don't come out of my heart like they used to.
There's also a significant difference in the amount of sleep I was getting when I wrote my older posts and now. I rarely get less than six hours of sleep these days. Back then I was lucky if I got five. I feel like there has to be some kind of significant correlation between lack of sleep and amount of writing that gets done. I have a friend who goes to school in Savannah, GA who gets little sleep and she writes like a maniac. Dedication equals lack of sleep or lack of sleep equals dedication? It's a hard question. I know my writing hour, but my body isn't willing to accept it.
I want to be able to write with the love that was in those old poems. The love is still there, in the sense that the inspiration where I got that tone is still present in my life. If anything there should be more love in my life since the boyfriend and I have been trying to explore our spiritual lives more and get closer to God.
I don't know. I just don't blog/journal enough I think. I certainly don't write enough. That's for sure. I used to write everyday. Now I'm a junior in college and that swiftly changed.
I would sacrifice sleep tonight, but I've had a cold and I really should just take some NyQuil and go to bed to make sure I'm better by the weekend. I need to go to a bridal shower on Sunday. Mom gave it to me, I think. Nate has it and she's been sick, so I'm pretty sure she's the source. Anyway, I feel tons better right now, but I felt like dying earlier today so I shouldn't risk it tonight. Man I want to, though.
It's almost like a drug addiction isn't it? Like Isaac Mendez when he was high. He could paint the future. My high is no sleep. Interesting. Often times my loopiness turns into silence, which then turns into poems. Write out the kinks. Write out the kinks. That's what I should do. I should sit here and blog until the kinks come loose and the poems flow like water. They're sore muscles, tight ones, like the one that spreads from the toes to the base of the heel. When it stretches too far or gets too tight it's a stabbing pain every few minutes. A reminder. Stretch it out. Write it out.
Maybe I can't even write like that anymore. People change and writing changes. Voices change. Maybe I'm in transition.
A huge, 2-year transition that won't leave me alone, but won't let me write.
It's not a block. I don't believe in block anymore.
In Eragon, Eragon talks about magic being like this lump in his brain that he could scratch at. That's what I feel like poetry can sometimes be. I have to pull into myself and scratch my poetry gene before it comes out sometimes. My "mellow indie" playlist on Songza helps too.
I have to take the NyQuil, or else I won't sleep right.
It really is like an addiction. I love the feeling of an amazing sleep, and I love the rush of getting none at all. Maybe I'll get some writing done tomorrow.
It's not a block. I don't believe in block anymore.
