I need to be more active and put aside time to nuture my creative side.
Sitting down at my computer isn't the problem, not even close. I can sit and I can read or play or watch but create, no. For whatever reason as soon as I'm in that chair all thought of imaginative writing falls off the table.
Maybe left over bad feelings from all those nights spent at the computer writing about things I'm not bothered about, sometimes things that I was. Endless hours tapping at my keyboard writing about paintings and plays by strange men and women.
So here, few readers, I write from the flat and smooth screen of my shiny new phone. Blessed with a far better battery life then I am accustomed to I've decided to try and burn away the old homework feelings by starting the ball rolling in a slightly different medium.
Apparently my fingers naturally gravitate towards the full stop rather than the space bar.
I used a tablet to chronicle my adventures in America and that seemed to get a pretty good response so this will do fine.
So why does my brain rebel against something that I actually genuinely enjoy? Writing used to be one of the most fun things I could do, young Reece would imagine up hundreds of different characters and plots, jotting down a few every once and a while, sharing with friends at school until the paper was all crumpled and torn. Maybe it's the paper? It's so easy to just go: 'HERE LOOK AT THIS!' By throwing content at a facebook wall or a forum (Yes almost 100% of the people reading this came here from one of those places). There's something about holding the paper in your hand and seeing the mistakes scribbled out or the tears where a word was erased 3 times because it just didn't sound right. No backspace button 7 times mistake gone forever, the pencil or pen leaves a mark on the paper until it's incineration, telling you more about the writer than the writer knows.
So I write here, these thoughts dominating most of my night and I occassionally pick up my phone to add sections to whatever this here is. It's 2am and I wish it could stay like this longer, alone with thoughts of infinity until dawn breaks and light ruins the moment. What is it about the silence, the soft dripping outside, the breathing of nearby aouls recuperating for the day ahead? Why can't I explain to myself, in these times of solitude, why I can't sit at the computer and create? An empty mind is calm and without ripples, it can't look me in the eye and actually tell me anything. It just waits.
For those who don't know me, my name is Reece. I have a fabulous beard and I don't know what I want.
