Wednesday, 22 August 2012


I was pondering last night why I write, I've touched on it before when talking with people, not never really considered it in detail. The reason is, of course, down to context. So with the Contrary Towers blog it's very much about sillyness and cataloguing some of the unintended events that seem to populate the lives of my flatmate and I.

For the purely whimsical, creative, view of the world I write (quite bad) poetry. Some of it light hearted, some of it darker than a very dark thing. Moments and feelings I need to express, but don't want to write tedious prose.

And then there's this. Where I do write the tedious prose. It does share something in common with the poetry in that it is an outlet, a release valve. Often, after writing, I do feel better and dwell less on the internal torments and can gain some clarity of thought in what is still an emotional maelstrom for me.

They all though act as a record, different facets of my life vaguely frozen in time, a chance to reflect on what went before.

I've been in conversation recently and the subject of writing came up and, in it, I realised that I've reached the point where maybe I can actually start writing something longer. I still have no idea of form or structure, but it would at least free my mind to journey to places that are no longer possible in my ever closing situation. It's likely that anything I write will be semi-fictional and, probably, semi-autobiographical, drawing on past experiences that I've not talked about and mixing in the hopes and dreams that will never be fulfilled.

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