They say life is what happens in between your plans. But that makes it sound like life is about your shit fucking up. Like when you set out clear plans, have detailed visions of how you want things to pan out, non of it matters. Because the universe has its own plan, and it does what it does, regardless of what you had in mind. I might always find that hard to get my head around. Even though I’ve seen it with my own eyes, that when the doors I’ve banged on tirelessly remain shut, even more beautiful ones open- more beautiful than I would have imagined. It’s just hard to see through the fog of disappointment when you are in the moment, and everything has gone to shit. It’s hard to say- hey, shit happens, then shrug and move on to the way more beautiful open door.
An artist says a hard thing in a simple way."
— Charles Bukowski (via nicolemarie1021)
What is the point of love poems? Are they love songs that have not yet been put to music? No. They need no melody. Their message is more self-assured; each word picked out and woven together with more thought and care. Love poems need no lilting tones to enquire, to arouse, to push, to placate, to merge, to gladden, to cure, to touch, to persuade, to create, to hurt. What is the point of love poems? You might as well ask why there are rainbows or sunsets or flowers. Love poems have to exist so that we can become.
There are some who claim there is no such thing as writers’ block,
claiming words just flow from the brain on to the page for them. I’m not so
lucky. What works for me is taking a break. I leave my workspace for a
bit. I eat or I drink lots of cold water. I go outside and find a spot
where I can take a breath of fresh air. However, what usually works
best for me is a powernap of around twenty minutes. I think a block
just might be the unconscious reaching out to tell me that there’s a
better angle to my story. I think that’s why a nap works best, because
asleep, I’m the most accessible to my subconscious.
How did you write about your ex-lover? Did you fill up pages with hyperbole and exaggerated clichés? Did you tell yourself that you were bleeding through the blue/black ink of your pen? Did you feel like it was purging, like it was therapy? Did it make you feel better? Did you spend anytime at all scrutinising over the grammar of your love-lost fuelled writings? Did you think of rhyming? Of syntax? Did you just go wild; was it freeform? Did you close the page, put the notebook in a box, go away to live and heal? Did you return to this book months later, by chance, stumbling upon those pages stained with your heartbreak; and recoil embarrassed, whispering: ‘what the fuck was I thinking?’