I spend the majority of my time caught between research and writing; if a piece lacks footnotes and citations, I begin to feel guilty for working on it when I have so much other work to do. I am driven, but I also have a tendency to prolong my work. I can begin weeks or months before the deadline, and I still find myself in a critical panic before submission, no matter how much time I invested in a project. As such, indulging in my desire to write for my own pleasure (Something which I first began as a child, caught in the awkward world of elementary and high school drama, where no one really has any idea of who they are, or who they want to be), comes at the cost of guilt, unless I have absolutely nothing on my plate. As a graduate student, working as a TA for multiple courses and instructors, this is a rare occasion. Still, I manage to squirrel away minutes here and there, hoping that the right muse will strike me; it is difficult when you end up being struck by Clio when you were hoping for Calliope or Erato, and vice versa.
Well, I have been saving up bits of my creative writing. snippets of incomplete stories, unedited poems, and so on. I just haven’t had the time to set them up for an audience. I am going to post a few through-out the next couple of days, hoping that they are at least somewhat enjoyable for people other than myself. The internet is an amazing thing, really, allowing this kind of presentation, to reach a wider audience.
Enough with my rambling on, it seems somewhat melancholic in reflection.
The Fear of Truth These fleeting pleasantries which we exchange, Fraught with deep disquiet need, Cannot be lost on gusts of air between their utterance and their reception. Dark reprieve and emotional waterfalls, Trapped within the churning void of night, They drip heat from their lips. Can it be said that these words are empty, When they are like the force of stone? Stronger than the pull of gravity, These words are covers for the truth which begs to be hidden to save us all from exposure. M