Body is slow
Every action a battle
By a weakened will
That’s swallowed in sluggishness
First tiring….then flagging
And finally failing
at first sign of setback.
No wind in my sails
No lead in my pencil
Nothing but the doldrums
On my shortened horizon
Of unemployed, unenjoyed
Hours and days,
At dead end after dead end
In my self-made maze.
Dead Ends, Ocksblog 2009
I wrote this poem today about how I have been feeling. I am a 23-year-old failed journalist (yes, it didn’t take me long) trying to find a way to fulfilling my literary dreams. Unfortunately I steadily realising that literary greatness, and even literary mediocrity, doesn’t just happen to a person. No matter how much they like reading books.
I have to pull my finger out, put some effort in, and direct the thoughts and feelings I have on a daily basis towards a creative end. I do this already, by writing the odd poem, attempting the odd article, but not with enough gusto and determination. My poem, Dead Ends, is a realisation of this. It was also the tipping point that made me finally overcome all self-doubt and begin a blog.
“You do have interesting things to say,” I told myself, “Think of all the conversations with others where you have jabbered on about this or that, rambling on philosophy, cultures, sense of being, and people seem absorbed. Or at least not bored. All the little observations on life and existence you sometimes share with others, who often find them witty.”
The grinding, aching self-doubt remained to a degree. The lethargy that has been gripping me every morning for the last 10 weeks since I lost my job as a local newspaper reporter. Then I played a few trump cards on myself: the “You have nothing to lose” card, and the “sort you fucking life out” card.
And I started my blog.
More to come later on who I am, where I am, and what I am doing with myself (if I have worked that bit out by then).
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