The Loss
Ever since that day, when she pranced laughing into the sunset, leaving me to pick up the pieces, I have remade myself. I've become the second coming of Corsarius -- more complete, more unforgiving, more efficient than ever before. Focused. Driven. Invincible.
Or so I thought.
Ever since that day, when I began my odyssey of resurgence, I've sifted through the rubble, enhancing the strengths, pruning the frailties. All in a quest to become the greatest person one can be. All in a quest to be rid of self-inflicted tragedies. All in a quest to be a bastion of cold, merciless success.
But I lost something in the way.
With the heart in frigid waters, the soul was encased in slumber.
Some people call me a writer. A poet. A weaver of words into vast, majestic tapestries of life's nuances and life itself. But it is all a lie. A great, cruel fabrication. My words don't flow freely from the heart. How can they, when their receptacle -- the heart -- is frozen in some distant universe of false hope? I must force myself to break open the ice, enough to let a trickle of emotion seep through, enough to write a senseless piece of 'literature', a mere shadow of past dreams.
True writing isn't forced, true poetry isn't a trickle.
Ever since that day, when she pranced laughing into the sunset, when I began my odyssey of resurgence, I lost the power of my soul.
I lost the power of my writing.
And that is the most miserable thing a 'writer' can admit to himself.
All because I rid myself of pain. I shielded myself from tragedy. That was my own undoing.
I forgot that with pain comes blood, and blood enlivens the heart, allowing it to be the hearth of dreams, dreams born of tragedy.
Or so I thought.
Ever since that day, when I began my odyssey of resurgence, I've sifted through the rubble, enhancing the strengths, pruning the frailties. All in a quest to become the greatest person one can be. All in a quest to be rid of self-inflicted tragedies. All in a quest to be a bastion of cold, merciless success.
But I lost something in the way.
With the heart in frigid waters, the soul was encased in slumber.
Some people call me a writer. A poet. A weaver of words into vast, majestic tapestries of life's nuances and life itself. But it is all a lie. A great, cruel fabrication. My words don't flow freely from the heart. How can they, when their receptacle -- the heart -- is frozen in some distant universe of false hope? I must force myself to break open the ice, enough to let a trickle of emotion seep through, enough to write a senseless piece of 'literature', a mere shadow of past dreams.
True writing isn't forced, true poetry isn't a trickle.
Ever since that day, when she pranced laughing into the sunset, when I began my odyssey of resurgence, I lost the power of my soul.
I lost the power of my writing.
And that is the most miserable thing a 'writer' can admit to himself.
All because I rid myself of pain. I shielded myself from tragedy. That was my own undoing.
I forgot that with pain comes blood, and blood enlivens the heart, allowing it to be the hearth of dreams, dreams born of tragedy.
slipped from the pen of Corsarius at 4:00 AM
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7 Comments:
funny thing about pain. it fuels your writing more than anything can. because pain takes a life of its own, you don't need to define it. you can pick out the words to describe it (and it almost always isn't enough), but the reader can pick up on the vibe because pain is as elemental as the earth we walk on. we are born into this world feeding off pain. from the darkness, from blood-sweat-tears, we emerge into light, and we cry. pain.
yep, you're right about that, transience. sakto.
you know, i think i've not shed a tear for so many months now...and during that period, i've come up with lackluster writing. the creativity -- the passion -- were all seemingly flushed down the john.
hey, thank you very much for dropping by again :D
"But it is all a lie."
Damn! I 'hate' you!
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[typo in my previous comment]
to jonas: you know, that's the reason why when someone tells me I write good, I'm quite unresponsive. yes, i'm glad, flattered even, but i still have this weird gut feeling telling me that i could've written better.
better..because when I write, something is lacking. unlike in the years past, when I can stay up all night long in a furious assault on the keyboard, now it all comes in spurts. most of the time i am uninspired, a stark contrast to the past, when pain fueled my creativity.
again, true writing isn't forced, true poetry isn't a trickle.
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You lie!!
Yeah, like I've seen your mind.
Basahin mo na lang as this: ang fishing mo! Heh.
If what I've seen isn't powerful, and empathic, I don't know what is. Well, that's a cliche but I don't know how else to put it right now.
Lose the power of your soul you did not. Weakened, perhaps. Asleep like a dragon, perhaps. Hidden like the bigger part of an iceberg, perhaps.
You will always be you. Even with change.
You've move on, have you not?
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