Not even Roald Dahl hit me like these words.
I read the words I'd never written. Found peace in them for no apparent reason, I did. It might have been a longing for acceptance or a quest to move away from it. The comforts it provided and the ones I seeked somehow matched and yet the ones I get otherwise are the ones that make me feel strange.
Solace in words was only a spoken phrase, understood not until I read. Sure, I wrote, but reading provides the solace even writing cannot. Like comforting arms wrapped all around, the words warmed me, inside and everywhere. A sense of adventure I hadn't felt.
I just wanted to be strange and special again, and nothing but those foreign words that I did not string made me feel that way. Not even when all those feelings that had been shared and had been rejoiced, not even when I was supposed to be loved.
As I go about the everyday business of questioning myself and my choices, mine as they are. This hit me, inspired me - words. Not in the self appreciating way they had done before, but in their arrangement of appeal and rooted hope. I wanted them, in every possible way. They held meaning of my desires.
I cry otherwise, you know, because of this self questioning business, like I wasn't myself anymore, like I am a little lost. But this held me, in my route and position, uncomfortable and upset as that might be, for those moments this reading held me and moved along with me - on my journey to sadness and whatever it might be. It was a breather and I might go back, but knowing that there is something to read that will lift me up and just hold me on this sad journey of identity and age.
It's a hard wondrous journey to string together appealing words that might make the slightest sense to anyone but yourself, but sometimes writing for yourself is the best way to write for others and most important of this all is to read what might amuse and fill you up completely. Without it, because, there is nothing to write about. Only imitations.
Solace in words was only a spoken phrase, understood not until I read. Sure, I wrote, but reading provides the solace even writing cannot. Like comforting arms wrapped all around, the words warmed me, inside and everywhere. A sense of adventure I hadn't felt.
I just wanted to be strange and special again, and nothing but those foreign words that I did not string made me feel that way. Not even when all those feelings that had been shared and had been rejoiced, not even when I was supposed to be loved.
As I go about the everyday business of questioning myself and my choices, mine as they are. This hit me, inspired me - words. Not in the self appreciating way they had done before, but in their arrangement of appeal and rooted hope. I wanted them, in every possible way. They held meaning of my desires.
I cry otherwise, you know, because of this self questioning business, like I wasn't myself anymore, like I am a little lost. But this held me, in my route and position, uncomfortable and upset as that might be, for those moments this reading held me and moved along with me - on my journey to sadness and whatever it might be. It was a breather and I might go back, but knowing that there is something to read that will lift me up and just hold me on this sad journey of identity and age.
It's a hard wondrous journey to string together appealing words that might make the slightest sense to anyone but yourself, but sometimes writing for yourself is the best way to write for others and most important of this all is to read what might amuse and fill you up completely. Without it, because, there is nothing to write about. Only imitations.
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