Wednesday, December 30, 2009

I'm not a poet.

This is nothing more or less than a rant of sorts.

I battle daily with my quest to understand not only my existence, but my creative purpose. Writing has been a drug for me ever since my frustrated mother gave me my first journal when I was 7 years old. She didn't know how to help me with my "anger issues" and someone told her that would be a good idea. I mean, what do you do to help a small child with no understanding or reason why she is so frustrated with the world? And so, I began journaling. Daily. Religiously. And within a month or so, my mother started perusing my pages. Most of the time she'd find whatever it was that she was looking for and it'd satisfy her for a while. A pat on the head coupled with a accepting smile, and life was good. For her. For me, however, the paper became a crutch, an appendage. I could barely go a full day without daydreaming about how I would "let them all have it" (in written form, of course) as soon as I got home to my pretty cotton candy pink sanctuary with the grape sno-cone colored plushy carpet.

And then one day, the Rage.

It was during that desolate time of year between Christmas and Easter, probably somewhere around that Cupid's card holiday that I started contemplating my own existence, as well as the existence of an Afterlife or our human understanding of said post-corporeal existence. I discovered four little words that would forever change my relationship with not only my mother, but the world at large: "I Want To Die."

In my mind, was I angry? Yes. Was I suicidal? No. Not even remotely close. I had already been contemplating the eternal versus the transient nature of our bodies, when I just had a really bad day. I finally let loose the thoughts that I had been holding back. I was systematically testing the limits of my own physical boundaries, as well as the intelligent understandings of my eight rotations around the Sun. But, all creative geniuses have their antithesis. Mine just happened to be the Birth-Giver. And She was not happy while flipping the pages that day, I can assure you.

...So what does this have to do with not being a poet?

I have a "Collection of Poetry" blog. I have volumes of poetry in paper journals. I have poetic artwork that flows from my poetic fingertips. But in essence, I am a Philosopher. I write cryptically because it is safer to be cryptic than to let it all flow freely for the general population to slip in.


~Sarafina~ said...

I understand completely wanting to die and not being suicidal. It's like you want someone to just take care of it for you, you would be ok with just going to sleep, but don't want to be active.

I understand it oh so well. I had one of those days last week.

=^..^= said...

that's definitely one of my ways of viewing it some days. :) I think most of the time my contemplation comes from a place of non-understanding and fear of the unknown. Like...if only i could experience it I wouldn't have to worry anymore. However, even at a young age I realized that to experience it means you don't get to come back and share it with the others who haven't yet 'earned' such a gift of knowing....

I had thought I was suicidal previously, whereas being in the type of situation that you described but it wasn't until I was truly suicidal did I realize that there is a vast difference between wanting to crawl under the covers and 'die' & really just not being of this world spiritually but still physically stuck here.