Ramblings, Musings and Other Short Stories |
Thinking Out Loud
and Introducing Myself
I’ve been meaning to start this blog for a while. But now that I’m actually starting it, I feel a kind of anxiety and apprehension that a kid feels when someone else finds their journal. But some things are meant to be shared, and I feel like sharing.
Ever since I was a little kid I absolutely loved reading. Loving writing seemed to be a natural second. I had so many journals and diaries, the ones with locks and keys, or ribbon ties- I rarely ever finished one because I was always getting another. I can’t remember the first story I wrote but my stories as a kid were generally small mysteries, or little fantasies involving fairies and mysterious worlds in the middle of the woods. I was always so frustrated that I couldn’t finish what I started writing, or that I couldn’t fully put into words the things I had imagined.
Poetry and old fairy tales and legends also captivated me. When I started writing poetry, I felt my writing take on more shape. With poetry I feel the full power of words to encapsulate all the nostalgia I feel- all the memories I can’t take back and relive.
I’m still frustrated that I can’t always write out exactly what I want to- but the moments when I feel everything coming together, and when I read something and its come out close to how I intended- it’s an amazing feeling of clarity.
Writing is my painting, composing, constructing- it’s the form of art I’ve always most related to. Even if nothing I ever write is worth printing, I will always enjoy writing for its own sake. It all stemmed from my love to read, and my resentment for how quickly time moves and takes people, places, and things away from us.
The people and places I miss can all live on if I can just find the right words to describe them.
I hope you enjoy these ramblings- they’re really just the daydreams that I don’t ever want to part with, the ideas that constantly nag me until they’re written down in front of me, or sometimes the ideas that steal my sleep at night and won’t give it back until I’ve written it out. Short stories, poems, all just fragments of things that I want to read myself, or things that I struggle to define and so attempt to with all the words I can gather.
Ever since I was a little kid I absolutely loved reading. Loving writing seemed to be a natural second. I had so many journals and diaries, the ones with locks and keys, or ribbon ties- I rarely ever finished one because I was always getting another. I can’t remember the first story I wrote but my stories as a kid were generally small mysteries, or little fantasies involving fairies and mysterious worlds in the middle of the woods. I was always so frustrated that I couldn’t finish what I started writing, or that I couldn’t fully put into words the things I had imagined.
Poetry and old fairy tales and legends also captivated me. When I started writing poetry, I felt my writing take on more shape. With poetry I feel the full power of words to encapsulate all the nostalgia I feel- all the memories I can’t take back and relive.
I’m still frustrated that I can’t always write out exactly what I want to- but the moments when I feel everything coming together, and when I read something and its come out close to how I intended- it’s an amazing feeling of clarity.
Writing is my painting, composing, constructing- it’s the form of art I’ve always most related to. Even if nothing I ever write is worth printing, I will always enjoy writing for its own sake. It all stemmed from my love to read, and my resentment for how quickly time moves and takes people, places, and things away from us.
The people and places I miss can all live on if I can just find the right words to describe them.
I hope you enjoy these ramblings- they’re really just the daydreams that I don’t ever want to part with, the ideas that constantly nag me until they’re written down in front of me, or sometimes the ideas that steal my sleep at night and won’t give it back until I’ve written it out. Short stories, poems, all just fragments of things that I want to read myself, or things that I struggle to define and so attempt to with all the words I can gather.