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Ernest Hemingway once said “The writer must write what he has to say not speak it” We are not limited to the obvious we are not limited to the extraordinary, we are driven by emotion and manage our desires and shortcomings with our strength; the ability to capture emotion like spring water in an oversized jar. Writing is not about words it’s about inciting thought when audio is not available. It’s the expression of Love in a Ballad the projection of sadness in the blues, or the power of passion in a poem.
I would rather have a million thoughts and not make a sound, than speak without merit. Besides somewhere between my brain and my tongue words just seem to get lost, and even the perfect sentence meant to be chronicled in color became merely chaos. There is no eraser for what is spoken, there is no option to rip it up and start over, only regret. I used to want to be like the guy on stage adored by thousands or the smooth talking guy at the bar who could knock a complete a stranger off of her feet, well, really just anything more than I was, which to me never really seemed like all that much. I was the secret admirer, the guy who wanted the last dance but was too shy to ask; the guy whose thoughts were much greater than his presence, a Maggot Brain. I wasn’t completely lost but writing was the only way I had to be remembered, the only thing in life that I was ever more than just good at. I needed to be better than great. I had a gift; the struggle was how to open it. There were the voices, the heartache, the frustrations, and the need to be more. Pain was my path to happiness and my quest for creations wagered on certain destruction. Sometimes you’re nobody till you’re gone and I lived so that I could have in death what I never would in life, Immortality.
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In no particular order, I replied
“Outkast ATliens 1996
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