That image, of darkness being the soil from which we bloom... oh, that is so beautiful.
I write, always have and hope to always be writing, and yet already at a very tender age of nineteen I understand that sometimes - sometimes it feels as if any gift I once had has dropped into oblivion. I've felt for months now that removing one of my characters from play and writing because he was just hurting so much, has made it so that I realise just how much he is the writer, and I am not. Sad, to think - as there are other voices in me that I love and respect, but they still stay in the dark, refuse to come to paper.
It passes. Even through writing it passes. During my darkest times where prose has been about madness and all I've been able to express my sadness through is aching poetry - it was the writing, even when it felt pained and hard and nothing but a dry, talentless slog - that has brought me back.
I don't know if this helps, but - you've reminded me why I stick to my guns, even when all my darkest character can think and write of is the lack of love in her life. It's appropriate - her name is Rose, my very own dark well of memory. "... as flowers from the soil..."
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I write, always have and hope to always be writing, and yet already at a very tender age of nineteen I understand that sometimes - sometimes it feels as if any gift I once had has dropped into oblivion. I've felt for months now that removing one of my characters from play and writing because he was just hurting so much, has made it so that I realise just how much he is the writer, and I am not. Sad, to think - as there are other voices in me that I love and respect, but they still stay in the dark, refuse to come to paper.
It passes. Even through writing it passes. During my darkest times where prose has been about madness and all I've been able to express my sadness through is aching poetry - it was the writing, even when it felt pained and hard and nothing but a dry, talentless slog - that has brought me back.
I don't know if this helps, but - you've reminded me why I stick to my guns, even when all my darkest character can think and write of is the lack of love in her life. It's appropriate - her name is Rose, my very own dark well of memory. "... as flowers from the soil..."