mattwiNk...

For the past few years, the majority of my time and energy has been focused, in some way, shape or form, on writing. The creative aspect of turning thoughts into something tangible and, more incredibly, something that make sense to others is magical to me and what I’ve been striving to make a career out of.

The hard part of this is that I often expect life to be beautifully scripted, like a perfectly plotted movie…and I keep finding out, more and more, that that’s more often than not, not the case. It’s a great thought to imagine that all the moves of my life are being narrated and carefully planned so that, when dissected, they all fit together like a perfect puzzle. It’s cute to think that a perfectly timed song hit my ears at the exact moment it was supposed to to capsulize a moment in time. That the numerology of ‘4’ continues to play out just as precisely as the seasons change.

But, maybe the romanticizing of such thoughts it what leads to disappointment, frustration and depression. Maybe if I were just able to accept things as coincidences I’d be able to sleep soundly each night, not waiting for a mystical sign that things are lining up just the way they should.

This is the fate of the obsessive compulsive.

Though, on the other hand, would I still be able to drive myself creatively if I thought life was all just a continual sequence of coincidences? Does the fact that this might be the case make my writing better or worse? Am I able to paint a picture with words better because the picture could never exist in reality? Or, does the hope that life is still a screenplay worthy of Sorkin, Crowe or Anderson allow me write because it’s still entirely plausible that such an existence can live off of the page or the screen?

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to believe in the latter. But, that’s my hope and that’s my faith. My faith lies in creativity and love. And maybe this is all moot. Maybe the answer is within the search for a balance. Maybe I find my answers in the grey areas.

I guess, this is the overwhelming beauty in creating…there is no right or wrong. There is no definitive (which may explain my affinity for the use of elipses…). Math and science, for the most part, are finite. Sure, they are ways to interpret how to use each, but there is a right and wrong answer. The putting together of words to make a thought tangible is open for interpretation and can be different for each and every person. To some, this entire piece of writing may be completely unstructured and make no sense…to others, it may open a window to the light of the world. To me? I just wrote it and have no idea what it means to me. Maybe the answer lies in the grey area.

bradkellyesque:

 

I learned as much about writing from this dude as I did from Hemingway. Economy of language, purposeful reconfiguration of grammar, juxtaposition of image and paradoxical interpretation, and heart without cloying sentiment. Transliterate this into proper punctuation and it is littered with hyphens, slashes, and semi-colons. 

I’d say this could become a problem,

If it wasn’t already,

It becomes tiresome

But sleep is no remedy

I lay in my bed

Full of unrest,

Sometimes with hope

That is obviously just in jest

I can’t speak to you,

I’m blocked in all angles,

Even as a ghost

You cause my heart just to dangle

There’s a box in the corner,

Memories within eyeshot,

The problem with them becoming tangible,

Is the pain when they can’t be forgot

I can say I don’t think of you,

I can say I’m fully restored,

But the problem with lies

Is they can’t help to absorb

The date came and went once again,

The date that would have started forever,

I think back to the moment

And wonder if it still was for the better

What hurts most is that I know it was,

What hurts most is that I smile,

What hurts most is now that I’m ok

It just means I’m in denial

As vividly as I remember how it started,

I, too, remember the text that was our last,

Though we had been done for a while,

Our connection didn’t end that fast

From sitting in front of a keyboard,

To drunkenly stumbling through Times Square,

When you traded me in

I felt forced to take to the air

New York was my new love,

Though she turned a cold shoulder,

And she couldn’t replace

The beauty in the eye of the beholder

I’ve tried L.A.,

She was too high maintenance,

I’ve tried Chicago,

But, I could tell the difference

“Hey Matt this is…” is how it started,

“…never talk to you again” is how it ended,

With an “…I love you more than life” thrown in for good measure,

Which kind of gives you a barometer for how my emotions can be trended

I heard through the grapevine that you may be hurting,

I heard you’re heart was the recipient this time,

I heard just the bare facts,

Weirdly enough in the same town where you captured mine

I wouldn’t want you in pain,

What’s an eye for an eye,

I wouldn’t want you the same,

Well, that is, unless you were willing to give it a try

There I go again,

Full of unrest,

This time with faint hope,

Which is probably just in jest