Being a writer

"Writing is easy, All you have to do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead."

The pundit who said that must have known whereof he spoke. To many, writing is an abstract undertaking that doesn't require any real work. It entails nothing more than furring the eyebrows, rubbing the chin, tapping the fingers, pacing the aisles, muttering incoherent words, fidgeting on a chair, sitting immobile for hours on end, staring at the ceiling or blankly into space.

It is a hazy profession that offers few tangible rewards, if at all; a choice not often taken as it barely puts food on the table or a shirt on one's back. It is a constant wrestling with thought that sucks strength and dissipates the intellect; an incessant grappling with words that emaciates the spirit and takes one's breath away.

On materialism

It doesn’t matter HOW MUCH you have or whether you COUNT your BLESSINGS. What you have would not amount to anything if you strip down to your soul and find EMPTY. 

What matters is WHAT YOU DO with what you have and your soul is FILLED by giving it ALL away. ‘Blessings’, after all, are meant to be SHARED, not to be OWNED and spoken of mindlessly as nothing more than a cliché.

On creating

Pablo Picasso said about the art of painting: "Matisse makes a drawing, then he makes a copy of it. He recopies it five times, ten times, always clarifying the line. He's convinced that the last, the most stripped down, is the best, the purest, the definitive one; and in fact, most of the time, it was the first. In drawing, nothing is better than the first attempt."

Robert Frost said about the art of writing: "It begins as a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness...a moment here and a moment there. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom...in a clarification of life."

In essence, the art of creating starts as a lump in the throat or a glint in the eye, a jerk in the knee or a spark in the belly, a wrench in the gut or a pinch in the heart. It is invariably referred to as a germ or a lead, a brainstorm that wouldn't leave; a Muse or an inspiration, an artist's sole excuse for being.

It is such a secret place, the land of tears, Antoine de Saint-Exupery said. You don't really know where it is coming from until it unravels. It can be the Little Prince's land of tears or some point of no return, a leisurely walk in the clouds or a mad dash up the hills, a long day's journey into night or just another day in paradise.

And it is a privilege to reside in that boundless, magical, secret place. Nothing compares to the aura that it radiates and the plethora of sensations that it kindles. The mind throbs, the flesh ripples, the heart jiggles, and the soul takes off to heights beyond belief. It is beautiful. It is free. And it is everlasting.

SPELLBOUND

Her face lit up
like a thousand blooms of summer
and the world stood still
for a while.

He was there
in front of her
staring his soulful stare
smiling his silky smile.

She sat motionless
gazing back at him
not blinking for fear
he would disappear.

When he spoke
she listened
and wished the moment
would last forever.

Don't you want someone to care about you?

“Why the indifference, the cold apathy?  Why the aversion to the lure of new sensations?  Don't you want someone to make you laugh when things become impossibly tough?  To squeeze your hand when sadness overwhelms you, or to wipe your tears when sorrow overcomes you?  You think that you're strong enough to sail through it all alone, because love has passed you by and left you dry, and once bitten twice shy.”

“What you don't have won't hurt you.  What you have forgotten, you won't miss.  There is no sense in resurrecting old pains, no logic in reviving unpleasant thoughts and ugly scenes.  Life is good without unnecessary complications.  Freedom is a priceless possession.  Why rock the boat when it is sailing smoothly?  Why fix the darn thing when it isn't broken?”

“You can run, but you can't hide forever.  You can demur, but you can't balk and balk for long.  You can delay the inevitable, but you can't say never ever.  For deep in your heart of hearts, you know.  When the night winds blow, and darkness creeps in, you long for that warm touch, that soft glow.  The gentle, calming presence that strokes your fears away, and makes you slither into restful slumber, tucked safely in their tight embrace.”

“What is essential is invisible to the eye.  What is important, only the heart can see.  Nobody knows the trouble you're in unless you tell them.  Nobody knows what you want unless they look beneath the façade.   If they can't rise from their shallow moorings, why bother?  Relationships, or the idea of it, are just an overrated piece of crap.  What makes you feel good inside is all that matters – no apologies, no worries.”

Hurry don't be late, I can hardly wait. I said to myself when we're old, we'll go dancing in the dark, walking through the park, and reminiscing.

When Last We Met

I have claimed you

Your sparkly eyes

Your toothy smile

Your rough shorn hair

Your warm body against mine.

You didn’t know

I took you home that night

And sleep wouldn’t come

In the muggy air of dawn.

At work in midday

I long for my bed

To find the sleep I lost.

But you are there

Disturbing me in restive slumber.

I’d like to return you

Along with the borrowed dreams

But how do I rub off from my skin

The memory of when last we met?

Denn A. Meneses

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