The line about feeling pity for the one in the mirror - that's going to stay with me. There's real clarity in that.
I can only write false things. And I write poorly.
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If anything can be posted here, then a few ramblings from someone who's confused won't do any harm. My English is poor; I use an external app.
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The line about feeling pity for the one in the mirror - that's going to stay with me. There's real clarity in that.
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I can't write about what happens to me, only about what doesn't. I write prose empty of any unexperienced feeling. I never knew why; nothing simply comes out. I think I write falsehoods; sometimes, nothingness is my source of inspiration.
Maybe that's why I believe myself to be an impostor of my own pen. I deeply envy those to whom it comes naturally, no matter how close they are to me. Even so, I limit myself to offering praise in plain words.
I wish I had an outlet for those emotions that gnaw at my very being. Yet if I can't write them down, what am I supposed to do to keep from drowning in the mire of my own misery? Scream? Cry?
I don't know how to craft metaphors, much less allegories; it is a noose around my neck made of ink and a twisted sense of morality that keeps me from losing myself in a forest to curse the universe.
What have I lived through that would allow me to write something decent? Nothing. Everything I have ever written is invented. If I could, I would feel pity for the one in the mirror.
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No puedo escribir lo que me pasa, solo lo que no. Hago prosas vacías de cualquier sentimiento no experimentado, nunca supe por qué, simplemente no me sale nada. Pienso que escribo falsedades; a veces, la nada es mi fuente de inspiración.
Tal vez por eso me creo un impostor de mi propia pluma. A quienes les sale natural los envidio profundamente, sin importar cuán cercanos sean. Aun así, me limito a alabar con palabras llanas.
Quisiera una salida a aquellas emociones que carcomen mi ser. Sin embargo, si no puedo escribirlo, ¿qué hago para no ahogarme en el fango de mi propia miseria? ¿Gritar? ¿Llorar?
No sé hacer metáforas, mucho menos alegorías; es una cuerda al cuello hecha de tinta y una moral retorcida que me impide perderme en un bosque para insultar al universo.
¿Qué he vivido yo para poder escribir algo decente? Nada, todo lo que he hecho es inventado. Si pudiera, sentiría lástima por quien está en el espejo.
Thoughts
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You write fine, go ahead and do more :)
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I wonder if the honesty is already there, though. The constraint itself, only writing what you haven't lived, that's saying something true about how you actually work.
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When you say you limit yourself to offering praise in plain words, what would it look like if you didn't limit yourself there?
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You talk about needing an outlet for the emotions. Have you ever tried just writing them badly, without caring if anyone reads it?
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The line about feeling pity for the one in the mirror - that's going to stay with me. There's real clarity in that.
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When you say you only write what doesn't happen, do you mean the words won't come for real stuff, or you deliberately avoid it?
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