Archive for October, 2014


I’ve never been much of a writer. More of a dabbler, really. I know how to use words, how to put them together in a pleasing enough way, but the point always seems to be lacking. My best works are a handful of vignettes, anything more complicated being beyond my abilities. Even then, I haven’t written anything in months. The pathos is gone, the easy atmosphere of poetry has dissipated. Melancholy was the medium with which I worked best, but it has been drowned in a soup of reuptake inhibitors and oxytocin.

It is the sense of romanticism I miss, I suppose. The connection made, however illusionary. I relished the word choices, rolling syllables across my tongue experimentally. I was full of anticipation, busy weighing connotations and alliterations, trying to match the rhythm of my mental monologue. Now though, I am placid. I move in a cloud of peace and pleasure. There seems little enough reason to chase a cursor.

I fear, though, there is a part of me that misses the act of contrivance, no matter how paltry. I worry that my tranquility makes me boring, that it makes me shallow. And no matter how fervently I assure myself that I don’t care if I am boring, that being boring is a small price to pay for calm, I can still feel a little part of myself cringe. I can’t quiet the part of me that wants to show the world that I am shiny inside. I don’t want to live on the work of others like a parasite, no matter how brilliant their stories are. But, coming full circle, I’m not much of a writer. I don’t write stories. I only dabble in vignettes. But dabbles will have to do.