This week, above all weeks, I find myself writing. “You’re a blogger, big deal.” I am aware. But the writing I am talking about isn’t this incoherent-stream-of-consciousness that you are perusing right now, this is the DUN DUN DUN creative process.
Three songs, six poems, half a short story and one blog post later, I struggle to know where the inspiration came from. Life, I suppose, but specifics are hard to lay a finger on. Its these times of vast production that you become overly taken with the concept of becoming the ‘artiste,’ obsessed with becoming the historical figure of tomorrow. Once the creative period passes of course, you realise that you actually DO have to buckle down and learn some stuff, because you can’t lounge around your parents house forever, erratically tinkering on piano keys at one o clock in the morning. But until that moments rears its head again, I feel like sharing.
I’ll probably regret this tomorrow, so this post can spend a nice nap in drafts tonight. If this makes it to you, I present The Telephone.
Does one forget the voice?
The air as it rushes
Past varying lengths of vocal cord,
The timbre resounds.
Perhaps not, and yet
I still find myself dialling the numbers
So as to recollect
The quiet, slightly lengthened laugh,
Whose purpose is to cover a pause,
The slight breath before a statement,
The less commonly audient tone of firm reassurance
Which I find myself slave to,
Comforted every time.
These doubts which frequent me
Are invariably soothed by the rise
And fall in pitch of each sentence,
A nocturne without my signature morose.
I impatiently crave for this technological barrier
To be lifted
And I wonder whether you have noticed these discrepancies of me.
I hope and wait in anticipation.