I’ve been gone for a while now so i’d thought i’d give a general update. I’m sitting here writing this with a huge bandage around my toe, and it is hurting like hell. So just as i expel emotional pain through my writing, i’m going to attempt the same with physical pain (does heartache count as physical or emotional pain? Discuss.) and hope that distracts me away from the throbbing pain of my toe.

It’s become increasingly clear to me over the past few weeks that what i need to be doing is carrying a small notepad and pen with me. Throughout the day i see something interesting, or i think of something thought-provoking, random poetry lines or perhaps the next sentence in my story. I almost feel sometimes that i need that notepad with me once my mind starts getting depressed and there’s nobody around me to talk to (or to hug).

These are all things i feel a small notepad and pen can help with. It’s different from carrying a huge A4 pad with you because things like that can fit in your pocket. But also there’s a much, much more important reason which really forms the topic of this blog post.

I always felt that writing, or literature in general, was an art that was concerned about humanity. On a literal level, it’s about the life and the experiences of other people, which then works on an overarching metaphorical level because it’s really talking about us and our own experience too.

So along with the obvious requirement of a huge vocabulary and the established poetical daring and eloquence that every writer needs, i think what really separates good writers from the great writers is the skill of observation. A really great writer has his or her finger on the pulse; they are able to absorb life in all its angles and dimensions, and their job is to document it.

I’m confident enough to call myself a writer, but not an established writer. Amongst my seemingly overpowering weaknesses, i do have one particular attribute that works in my favour. That is my ability to observe social and individual details in a very focused manner. Whether that be talking to someone i’ve never met before with brutal openness because i see their hunger for society, or looking in the face of a brother whose pain i know well and feel deeply, or maybe to feel a sense of longing for someone i have never ever seen or met. I am rapaciously attracted to the idea of exploring the root emotions of whoever i meet. I’m always constantly categorising experiences as writing material.

It’s an empathy combined with a sharp intuition and curiosity. In my time in college i have met so many odd varities of people, drug addicts, convicts, disabled, depressed people and yet time after time i never feel repulsed or disgusted. Infact i feel a desire to go on further and further and to really understand that person in their root. We all share this earth so why don’t we get to know each other?

Then all of that raw data becomes processed in my mind and forms my characters, every little detail. Down to their gestures, their manners, their evenings, the way they talk and dress. No stone is left unturned.

There’s a bad side to all this naturally. Sometimes i feel my inquisitiveness leads me down bad alleyways, i often find myself getting incredibly nosy and poking too far, too quick just because of that desire to form a really, solid, wide picture of what a person is. Sometimes i also find that i get it wrong, and that each time that i have, i’ve made a pretty serious mistake in my life. Nowadays what leads me is a natural neutrality. I always give precedence to the benefit of doubt.

What i’m really striving to convey in both practice and writing is this. We need to stop forming the basis of our understanding of people with themes. We can’t pidgeonhole people on their appearance, dress, religion, sexuality, or even just the way they go about their life. We should embrace the idea of talking to someone who makes us feel uncomfortable. If we understand other people as humans first and then everything after, then the world would be a better place.

Just read this genius.

---

“The phrase and the day and the scene harmonized in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the grey-fringed fleece of clouds. No, it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language many-coloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose?”

From The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce.

Tonight i feel with such an burning intensity, the desire to go to university. I’ve been spending the entire night writing my application and doing research on the various institutions i’ve applied for, including interviews with students in their first years of English and my heart just suddenly bumps up the rate.

It’s like adrenaline coarsing through my veins….

I feel all of a sudden very powerful as if i am capable of topping the world over with my pinkie finger. All of a sudden i feel like i can do it. I can do it. I can get there if i try hard enough. The tempting allure of possibilities lending and extending their hands to give you a glimpse of a future that will dare to materialize once you expend the neccessary efforts.

What is this feeling i feel…?

I’m too jumpy and excited right now. How will i ever get enough sleep for tommorow? Someone pack my suitcase right now, i want to leave for the campus in time for next morning’s lecture.

Been feeling weird lately. Can’t really put it into words, so i will express it by this link. It’s only 3 and half minutes, which is hardly much.



Beautiful.