Unlike most deviants who seemed born to the endeavor, I was first inspired to start writing creatively the early Winter of my sophomore year in college when I stopped to admire the bare branches of a tree on my walk home one afternoon.
I probably stood outside next to the sidewalk staring into a grey sky for an hour just watching the wind try to catch the arms of that oak and no longer finding the leaves that used to be there to hold on to. And me, bright-eyed with all the time in the world, wearing some black band shirt to contrast with my red nose, flushed cheeks and frozen tipped ears.
When I got back to my apartment, I wrote a draft which - while I didn't know it at the time - would end up indicative of all of my future writings as it would go through about five major edits over the course of more than a month which would lead to most of what I had written being stripped from it until it became this:
You see, I'm not at all gifted in the visual arts, macaroni and bead necklaces were my farewell masterpiece to the medium, but I've always loved art and had a longing for it in ways difficult to explain. It was this, the wind and the tree, that was a revelatory turning point for me because, while I had long considered writing a beautiful art from, I had never once thought to try my hand at it outside of pun-riddled essays I amused my professors and myself with.
I remember wanting to share the writing with someone, to have a momentary touch point of a shared human equation. You see, while not a writer, I'd always been an avid reader - mostly of classics, occasionally of contemporaries - and in that moment romanticized the thought of having colleagues writing alongside of me like Shelly and Keats with whom I could write and discuss writing with, or a mentor such as Pound to Eliot who could help me to grow and perfect an art form. But, alas and alack, my friend community was far from what I sought, and - upon learning of my marketing and macroeconomic focuses in studies - I felt a sense of profound elitism from the literature community that existed at my school.
It was this that led me to eventually stumble upon dA one day during a search for literature sites by which I could find a community to learn and grow with, seeing as I didn't have one of my own that I fit in with.
Was one of the first pieces of literature I ever came upon here, and it floored me. I couldn't imagine (and still can't) in my wildest dreams writing something so profound.
In the coming months I happened upon pieces like:
Moves the dance eternal,
Frozen in slowest still (e)motions
Grieves the dance eternal
She - tragedian,
Poetess of murmure eternal and infinite hisses
Myope in shade
She - actress of sorrow,
Display of her weeping (he)art
Tither of those silhouettes carved
And I am tithable of rime:
My only refresh
It covers my whole
I am the Void(er)
I am a decayable fragment
Of this whole - nevermore
This stream will flow - nevermore
The flux will (g)row
Mea pectora requiescat
DementiaThe old man sits with stooped back.
The room is cold, just like his hands.
Thoughts have wandered like small children.
He wonders if he will see home again.
Thoughts have wandered home again,
with stooped backs and cold hands.
The room sits with the old man.
Like small children, he wonders if he will see cold.
Back stooped with thoughts, he wanders.
Like a child the small room sits, wondering.
Home again is cold.
The old man will see with his hands.
Thoughts have wandered with stooped backs.
The cold hands sit with the old man.
He wonders if he will see like small children.
The room is home again.
Seven is supposed to be lucky.Seven years ago you held my hand at Grandpa's funeral.
This is insomnia:
when I drink coffee at 2 AM
because I don't want to dream of you,
when I have to keep moving --
won't stop, can't stop --
because if I do you'll catch up to my thoughts.
Seven months ago you looked me in the eyes and said I was beautiful and made you proud.
I've been dreaming of ghosts since November
and walking in a daze since July --
I'm not sure how much longer I can stand these one-sided conservations,
holding your hands and watching you breathe.
(I know I can't help you inhale by exhaling;
I know because I've tried.)
Seven weeks ago you stared at the ceiling for an hour, without blinking and without seeing.
I've stopped sleeping since you started.
Everything is blurred and I walk in a dead trance;
the veil never lifts and you never rise.
Seven days ago you cried with eyes closed.
I drew a smiley face on your palms in permanent ink
so the first thing you'll remember when you
and knew that I was hooked.
In the early days, I tried so hard to keep pace with the people I admired,
, and archelyxs
's of lit.
I would write page upon page of lines with big visions and try to whittle them down to poignant pieces with vision and meaning. Still to this day, I write that way, but I've come to accept that I will always be a slow writer.
(it wasn't all writing all the time, though, I appreciate some visuals too from time to time.)
I met bowie-loon123
fairly early in my dA career, and they taught me that even the biggest most intimidating looking CVs and community connected people are really just people and are almost always super nice and encouraging.
I even eventually found my writing peer for a while in ProvenParadox
who will always be one of the biggest influencers of everything I write today. The growth I experienced reading his pieces and writing alongside them was easily the most important of my short literature life.
The SeaWhen you make the two one, you will become the Sons of Adam, and when you say, 'Mountain, move away,' it will move away.
Thomas 106: 1-2
When I returned to town, I heard the stories:
That you'd walked the oak path,
And past the angel with the flaming sword;
Beneath the river,
Behind the trees
And through a pantheon
Of wind broken stone;
You'd marched north
Until your steps matched the syncopation
Of the whale-song
And the cedars in the wind,
You'd crossed the bridge
To enter the valley kingdom.
I know that you'd watched the jaybird pick our nightmares from its
The Long Forgotten CountryAll forces have been steadily employ'd to complete and delight me
Now, here on this spot, I stand with my robust soul.
A Light in the Darkness
In the morning, as she cast her net for
Great handfuls of mud to build an island,
They say she smiled, and that
Her hair twisted itself into a forest.
And as she carved our bodies from the trees,
She christened this halcyon world with bones and sawdust,
And sent its name spiralling in a parade of golden mirages
In the fevered pits of the old king's immolated eyes:
The first light of dawn;
The path of the bird,
I joined theWrittenRevolution
(now the new and improved LitRecognition
) and got involved, learned about the community, made true friendships, seen people grow and become right near professional writers (some even becoming professional writers), and have even written some things that (surprisingly) I am proud to have written.
And that was that, I knew that I was quite comfortably stuck and not willing to go anywhere else.
Of course, none of that would be possible without this great community, and the touch points I've had with so many people - and especially every single one of my watchers, whether large or small. Those touch points have changed my life for the better, and I'm better for them.
So thank you so much, y'all are the world, and I'm so happy to be included among it.
Special thanks to Vigilo
, and IrrevocableFate
for keeping up with me and putting up with me the longest;SilverInkblot
, and L0NE-W0lf
for being the next tier of individuals to help me feel I belong and take the pressure off those top people who were beginning to regret being friends with me;
and plenty of others over the last couple of years that have made this change from a place I felt comfortable, to a home away from home.
You are all the best and I am so blessed, thank you.-Alain