Passive attraction;programmed reaction

I hate that I haven't been able to write anymore.
I mean, that was always my thing.
I've changed a lot in my life.
I think of myself as a chemistry experiment.
My friends have changed, my address has changed, my interests have changed.
But my writing has always been the control. The constant unchanged component that everything just whirls around before it steps out of my life.
Because everything and everyone eventually sidesteps out.
In grade two I was friends with Alice, Joanne and Sarah.
I listened to Spice Girls. My favorite thing in the world was riding my bike around the "circle" with my brother and Sarah.
And to sit in that crabapple tree in our front yard on Kenmuir Road and write short stories. I remember I named it Bertha.
Grade 7 meant Alexis, Veronica and Jasmine.
I listened to whatever was on the radio.
I spent my time at jobies, even though it was the last place I wanted to be.
I lived on Sundown, Allsbrook, and Hickey.
And wished I was somewhere else.
My salvation was Rachel.
Rachel and writing.
Writing about girls happier than I was.
Grade 9 was Veronica, Lennie, Sami, Shannsy, Tori and everyone in between.
I listened to Our Lady Peace and searched for a deeper meaning.
I spent my time on the phone with Lennie.
I wrote poems about cute boys from Drama Club.
I wrote long letters to Lennie about all my deepest secrets and he responded back with his.
Grade eleven was when it all got interesting.
My numero uno com padres were Rachel, Camille and Carlye... for the most part.
Another new town, another new life.
I wrote about everything.
Each of these times in my life I was a completely new person.
New interests, new beliefs... new postal codes.
Whether I was loving life or wishing I could just cease to exist, I was always sure of one thing; I had no idea who I was.
Now I know.
I know that I know.
So why am I completely lost of words?
Why is everything I write so redundant?
I was talking to my aunt the other night, and she said that my mom will always be proud of me, but the one thing that would break her heart is how I've completely given up on my dream.
But was it ever really MY dream? Or was it hers all along?
I'm not saying writing isn't important to me anymore, I just can't seem to find the words or the will.

I found an old blog entry I made



Passive Attraction; Programmed Reaction
Current mood: contemplative
Category: Goals, Plans, Hopes

I love the feeling I get.
It's indescribable.
How my heart swells and palpitates
How my stomach quavers
As the words pour from my heart, to my brain to the tip of my pen.
No feeling will ever equate the feelings I get when I write.
I can't surmise the way it feels to pour my sentiment, my soul, my spirit onto paper.
To relate my inner animosity or innate fervor.
Every word hold such boundless significance.

And yet... I can't help but find it frivolous to generate a career from it.

I just don't know what to do.
Henri Coulette amazes me.
I read his biography.. and he always seemed so sure.
Is that how it's supposed to be?
Planned out?
Maybe the fact that I doubt myself is a sign
A sign that it's not worth it...

Black Angel
Where are the people as beautiful as poems
As calm as mirrors
With their oceanic longings
The idler whom reflection loved
The woman with the iridescent brow
For I would bring them flowers.

I think of that friend too much moved by music
Who turned to games
And made a game of boredom
Of that one too much moved by faces
Who turned his face to the wall
And of that marvelous liar
Who turned, at last, to the truth

They are the past of what was always future
They speak in tongues
Silently, about nothing
They are like old streetcars buried at sea
In the wrong element
With nowhere to go

I will not meet her eye
Although I shall, but here's a butterfly
And a white flower
And the moon rising on my nail
This is the presence of things present
Where flying woefully is like closing sweetly
And there is nothing else.

Currently Reading :
The war of the secret agents,: And other poems
By Henri Coulette
Release date: By 1966