July 5, 2009

There is, placed upon a black shelf, a book that I hold quite dear. (Now, let's not say to what extent I hold it close; rather, let us believe that there is a level of endearment here.) On that shelf lay other memorabilia of years past: some tools for my instruments, some documents of the past year, some tools that would have been used for art. None of these pieces have been used in quite some time. In fact, I have not taken to my instruments in quite some time nor have I perused my documents as I once did. The art supplies--pencils in black and in colour--are the youngest of these, unused, neglected, and not exposed to the reaches of the outside world.

At this moment, I have taken to my thoughts and set them to this medium. In front of me wafts the aroma of tea; it is orange pekoe and the boiled water has just been heated. Prior to this writing, I have been reading a novel by a man whose initials are E.H.. He wrote in short, terse sentences. Where he would write. "I drink my tea. It is fresh," I would take it upon myself to write what lays before you now. Now, his writing is not entirely what motivated me to take to prose. While his words have inspired me, at the very least, to take to writing in full sentences they are not the central impetus.

Readers, as you may be acquainted with already, you'll find that I have been writing in, as they would say, "poetic" verses. Now, I can't be one to judge these pieces as good or lasting in the impression of others. (If had the input of my readers, I could much better gauge the skill of my writing.) It has occurred to me that I have not taken to prose writing, that is, the writing of complete thoughts borne by complete sentences. Now, while my thoughts in poetry have been expressed through complete sentences, they would have been chained by rhyme, rhythm, and breaks of lines.

I have grown tired of this style of writing for the time being. Of course, it is not born from out of my overbearing acquaintance of sonnets. Rather, it is for another style. Let it be known that I am writing a poem called "The Sketchbook", tentatively titled. I had started it on June 18 and worked on it sporadically for a few days. I have not, however, touched it since the end of June. Now, you can say that I am neglecting the art of poetry through this expository piece of prose. While that is true, there is nothing, I feel, that I should owe to anybody by publishing pieces. Call it a bitter resentment but if I should not receive feedback for my writings, to whom do I owe them? For lack of others' voices, I owe these pieces to myself and, as such, am in no rush to continue writing.

Now, you will say that you are fine with this and I see no objection. I have no desire to set myself to some sort of schedule and write on the seemingly mundane. For anybody who is hurt by this admission, and this should be nobody at all, I offer my apologies.

Let us get back to the sketchbook that lies upon a shelf. Hovering over my head, she seems as a monument to some old event, some bygone era. The implements by her, unopened pencils at the forefront, are quiet for a reason. On the sketchbook's cover is the image of art. (I cannot recall what it is now; I have not gazed upon it in some time.) There is a sea of black that bookends the image, underneath that is red. That image is nobody's; it is what is beneath that cover which paralyses my artistic spark. Her pages are empty, still white or cream (I cannot remember) and I have done nothing to free my mind upon the canvases.

I think she'll sit idle until I have rid myself of this artistic paralysis, as I have called it. Perhaps it will be free when I have finished that, perhaps final, poem. (It seems as though a good way to justify my actions.)

Pay no attention to my ramblings. I've set myself to write and I think it would be quite the waste to lose a moment of inspiration.