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The Human Experience 2I once referred to a creative writing group as a bunch of self-absorbed ego-stroking fools. I meant every word of it. Let me explain:
Not all people can take criticism well and many cannot take it at all. Whether we are talking about their writing, their work, their fashion sense, or decisions they make in their love lives, having people say that a choice is wrong or ill conceived is usually taken badly. I am not a teacher of life but also, I am considerably more than a mere student. I will start by saying that perfection does not exist. Not in any subject or in any way. In finding or creating what we perceive as perfect, we find that which is perfect in our own eyes only.
The writers' group that I referred to created itself out of a request by me to create a creative writing course at my university. While I was fighting for this course, some wannabe writers banded together to create this group. The
To BelieveTo believe in something
is to honour it
Like friends and peace and sunsets.
Each alone means little
but mixed with life
form the basis of what we call
Some people believe in different things
than those (mentioned above).
Bridging a GapBridging A Gap
There is nothing between us
The gap grows to a chasm
We are both alone
on opposite sides
The chasm is bottomless
A void so immense
that nothing could f
Writing rant"Oh, for a muse of fire -William Shakespeare, Henry V. Prologue.
There's a story I started working on a number of years ago. I planned it to be my third novel, mostly because the first one I had started writing was meant to be two volumes. Then apathy set in.. It has been a decade of wallowing in the muse of apathy and I have been trying to find ways to get out of the slump. Oddly enough, this third novel has been haunting my dreams for many nights now, trying to force me to write something down. This rant is supposed to
force me to write about stuff, maybe break my mental block. So here are some thoughts on writing and I suppose most of it applies to art mediums in general.
Writing is more than simply the act of putting pen to paper or filling in the keystrokes. A lot of bad novels, short stories and poetry have been written by people who think that it's easy. Writing is a contemplation, an act of creation requiring some degree of talent and beyond that, a degree of f
My PhilosophyLife is a road down which we all walk.
Those with whom we choose to walk that road are the people we call our friends. Along our journeys, new friends join us and old friends wander off or fade out of our little circles. Sometimes we fail to notice the leave taking of those who've faded away, and sometimes it hurts like hell to watch a friend walk away from our little circles, especially if that friend is walking very quickly out from the inner circle of our closest and dearest friends. But such is life, and we eventually realise that these departures are not the end of the world, although sometimes it may feel as though the Earth itself has ceased to exist because of our personal loss and the pain we share with no one.
More and more, people are creating vast circles filled with lots and lots of people coming and going all the time. Fewer and fewer people create these small, close circles filled with those with whom they wish to spend their entire life. Even the closest circles kept fo
On LoveEver been in love? Ever been so madly in love that nothing else in the world matters? Ever felt like dying when that love was taken away from you?
Oddly enough, I am one of the last people who would want to reduce love to some simple chemical imbalance in the brain. I feel no conflict with reducing depression or anxiety to chemical imbalances, even knowing that love is a major cause of both. Love is so very different from every other emotion we have.
Thousands of years have seen philosophers, poets and dreamers try to describe or explain love. They can make you cry or laugh with their many and varied attempts, but how well do they do? really? I would argue that love is beyond explanation, beyond description. Besides, the characters you are watching, the writers you are reading; many of them have been through love, but in the end what you are watching or reading is artifice; a re-enactment or portrayal of memories idealised. Loves won, loves lost and loves stillborn, but regardless of h
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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