In a world full of people telling you you’re not perfect and you need to change, being happy with who you are is an amazing way to “stick it to the man” (the man being every pop culture industry that has shaped the world in which we live).
What happens to a story
When we no longer want to write?
Does it sink back into our minds–
Half developed and white?
Does it hang over the edge
Between existence and death
Where it slowly begins to crumble–
Into white space like the rest?
Or maybe it sings
And begins life anew.
The story takes a new shape–
Shifting within you.
Hello fellow bloggers and happy Sunday!
Maybe it’s because it’s Sunday, or maybe it’s because it’s the first time in awhile it’s been somewhat warm here in Baltimore that encouraged me to look back on how far I’ve grown since I began this journey. Whatever the reason is, I’ve decided to write this blog post to share with you all about my experience thus far.
Like most college students, I am consumed by the tremendous amount of work that I am required to complete to show my worthiness of being a working citizen after I spend thousands of dollars to receive a degree. I mean, I like writing about the millions of Sherlock Holmes adaptations as the next person (like, I actually really enjoyed that assignment) so hopefully that will propel me full speed ahead to an awesome career once I graduate.
Also like many college students, when all the work for the day has been completed I instantly shlumped into the couch and became one with the cushions with a bag of cinnamon apple chips laying on my chest while I watch The Big Bang Theory marathon that seems to be a never ending thing in the tv world. Whenever I was not busy with piles of homework I became the laziest human being. The pile of unread books in my bedroom started collecting dust and never decreased in size, my laptop was only opened to complete assignments or to watch Netflix, and my creativity was completely blocked off as I reached for the remote instead of a pen.
I became a ghost of myself, moving through life without any color oozing from my hands or mind as it once had, and as I wished it would.
I started this blogging adventure last summer (very slowly at first) and I’ll be honest, my posts were boring and didn’t represent me in any way. I was told by a neighbor that I should start a blog to work on my writing skills and to get my feet wet in various topics. So I did.
I was so enthralled by the idea of being a blogger that I seemed to write on autopilot and didn’t tap into what I found interesting, instead I only focused on what I felt was meant to be discussed. Yes, some of my earlier posts were not so terrible, however, they felt meaningless among all the other topics I have nestled inside me.
After some time I began putting more time into my posts and writing about what I love instead of what some might expect. I began to lighten up and shook off the molds I’ve grown accustomed to, and let me tell you, it felt AMAZING!!
My parents may have lost a few years from reading a few of my posts where I cuss or talk about eccentric topics they had no clue blew through my mind, sorry mom and dad (they don’t read my blog anymore), but at least now I have some kind of mental release.
From devoting myself to the world of blogging, I learned that I am an introverted person. I hold so many emotions in my body and never release them to anyone because I feel like they shouldn’t have to worry about my problems when they have plenty of their own. This blog has become my therapist, to say the least. Although I try my best not to rant, the poetry I post speaks high volumes of my inner conscience. It’s amazing how a simple 16 line poem can speak years of mental breakdowns and sleepless nights.
I’ve learned that I do have an opinion and the power to voice my opinion. Many times I hid behind the words of other people who are louder than me, using them as a shield so I didn’t have to speak or be judged. This has been one of the largest mountains I’ve had to climb throughout my life. I know I had an opinion, everyone does, I just never spoke up when I had the opportunity. Our opinions are all worthy of being heard, even when we are the outcast, speak up and let yourself standout.
I’ve learned that there is always room for growth and my writing will only improve as I continue down this road. Every writer has anxiety about not being liked, something that will inevitably happen but is no reason for us to stop writing. I am never going to stop writing. The likes or shares or comments we get on our posts are no indication of how we are as humans or even as writers. I’ve dealt with the constant anxiety of being considered a poor writer, and maybe I am, but I won’t be forever. I will improve and I will continue to write despite still being indecisive where a comma should go or what words I should take out.
This has been such a positive experience for me and I am so glad I decided down this path. My confidence has grown and so have my writing skills. I’m not a perfect writer, I know that, but that is not what I am working towards because I know if I do I’ll just be let down when I see the road is never ending and with no clear destination. I’m just going to keep on moving and will never stop. The view is too spectacular to turn around and to head backwards.
Falling slowly—deeper and deeper,
Sinking into darkness—consumed by night.
Search for a sunbeam—among the lifeless,
A troubling monster—growing in time.
Shadowy figures—living without purpose,
A darkened cave—from which they hide.
Swipes the meaning—Oh beautiful existence,
From the young child’s eyes—a malicious crime.
Dreaming at night—a secret adventure,
Dreaming at day—a waste of moment.
Crawl into the cave—among the lifeless,
Experience the darkness—a dreamless bind.
For this post I wanted to take the time to speak on one of my favorite poems. “My Life Had Stood a Loaded Gun” is an amazing poem by Emily Dickinson through which she compares her life (or the unknown narrator) to something concrete and deadly as a loaded gun.
From reading and rereading this poem I’ve come to develope an idea that the narrator is not speaking from the perspective of a gun herself, instead the gun is a metaphor for their life through which is mistaken as unimportant.
Through a few interpretations I have heard, some find the narrator to be a gun itself, handled by a male and speaking of their journey together. When I read the poem I visualize a helpless female narrator being consumed by the power her husband has over her. Emily Dickinson, living in a time of great female suffrage, may have written this poem as a way to show the treatment women go through while expected to always do what they’re told, and the true power women have.
The image of being a loaded gun is a strong reference to the discrimination women face on a daily basis while expected to remain silent–only to raise their voice when the time is appropriate. However, women all have the ability to fire their shots, propel their bullets, and cause chaos to prove their worth equal or over men, but instead stay confined within their being–swallowing their ability to be heard and instead carry on with their lives as normal–at the hand of their husband.
This poem can definately be viewed in many different ways; when my Modern Poetry class examplined this poem we had an hour long discussion about the endless possibilities of who the narrator was and the significance of the gun, along with the amazing last line “For I have but the power to kill, / without–the power to die–”
The lives of women are infact a “loaded gun,” ready to take aim and fire whenever they feel belittled or used. Emily Dickinson’s representation of the female life in this poem may be ahead of it’s time when creating an image of female protest, however, that does not mean she was unaware of the need for equality and the true strength of women.
“My Life Had Stood a Loaded Gun” ~ Emily Dickinson
My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun –
In Corners – till a Day
The Owner passed – identified –
And carried Me away –
And now We roam in Sovereign Woods –
And now We hunt the Doe –
And every time I speak for Him
The Mountains straight reply –
And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow –
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let it’s pleasure through –
And when at Night – Our good Day done –
I guard My Master’s Head –
’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s
Deep Pillow – to have shared –
To foe of His – I’m deadly foe –
None stir the second time –
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye –
Or an emphatic Thumb –
Though I than He – may longer live
He longer must – than I –
For I have but the power to kill,
Without – the power to die –
Strange things happen between the hours of 12am and 6am–
The world around me crumbles and falls apart.
I fear sleep as it moves so swiftly
Consuming my body as my mind moves elsewhere.
I fear sleep because it reminds me of death–
A strange reality where we have no control.
Like death, sleep is silent, quick, and invisible
As it haunts our thoughts and move us from earth.
Yes, with sleep there may be good dreams that floods our spirit–
A possibility of death being a peaceful adventure,
But that is not what I fear the most.
With sleep you have the possibility of nightmares–
With death the nightmares would be never ending.
Dear Coffee, Thanks for your pep talks every morning as I prepare to take on the challenges of the day. You really motivate me–to the point where I feel invincible! I CAN DO ANYTHING!!! You’re awesome!
Dear Wine, thanks for having my back when Coffee gets a little out of control and tells me it’s 100% “ok” to jump up and down and get super excited while giving a speech. Apparently that is NOT something students are supposed to do in college. Who knew?!? Well, I’m completely beat, I’ll see you later tonight.