Wednesday, May 20, 2009

The Burning City Smoking

So most days I can't put to rest the burning city smoking in my mind
And I play pretend the principals are nothing more than actors running lines
And I stumble through a movie set where torture victims laugh
An abandoned journalist who juggled knives and daggered glass
While they entertain the marble Heads of State and CEO's
Oh whoa oh woh
I stagger past anarchist extras through saloon doors painted gold

I attended this panel recently about publishing and I remember someone saying, "If you love to write you'll find a way to do it." That line lingered in my mind for a few days, as I thought about coming to this page, or any blank page, to try and form some thoughts. I wrote posts in my minds, found lines from songs and subway stations that I found interesting, but not enough to sit and write them down. It's funny. There was a time not too long ago when you couldn't tear me away. It defined me. It was what I aspired to, longed to do, and when I got it, I no longer wanted to do it anymore.

I had struggled to find the point where it all just stopped. I now blame the fact that I finally started writing professionally, in a profession that I dreamed about for years. It was there that this act of expressing thoughts in words no longer appealed to me. I was writing about things I didn't know or didn't love, and felt like I was never good enough or would ever be. I know I'll look back last year as as a major turning point. My life was dismantled, this dream job wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and everything I knew to be true was dispelled. So I changed courses, moved out of the city, and found a new job. One year later, I am starting to feel the urge to return to writing, for the right reasons.

Walking through Manhattan these days is more than a scrapbook of memories. I've tried to take time now to look around me instead of rushing from place to place, remembering the late nights, the apartments, the roommates, the gigs, the bands, the shows, the streets, the bars, the friends -- all these things that have affected me, for better or for worse.

I almost prefer that no one really reads this blog so much anymore. It makes it easier for these self-deprecating posts. There have been little signs in the past few months that reminded me of just how far I've come, of the years that are now adding up, and the back and forth of every day life. I'm not quite sure if there was a point to all of this, or to any of that, but it's nice to have the space, even platform, to work it all out.

So that's that. I'm still listening to the exact same bands I was listening to a year ago. There's plenty of other more informative, and definitely entertaining out there. But I can't deny that I once was, or always will be, a writer. So every writer needs their page and this one happens to be mine.

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