Writing is one of the most personal things I think a person can do. And maybe at the time, or at a glance, it all seems rather delightfully superficial and not in the least sensitive but I know, I know, even the best word-user out there is reflected in the things they write. A piece of you is torn off when you pen something, a piece of you stays on that page whether you like it or not. And you can’t pluck it up and glue it back in place, things don’t work like that. Things never work like that.
Writing is personal and it’s taught me a few interesting things about myself. More recently it’s shown me just how much I like broken things. I mean, I’m a psychology student of course I like broken things to some degree. However! From a more personal (gah, I hate the word personal not going to lie I am a LITTLE BIT afraid of it) point of view it’s not just that I need to know how things function. I like broken things because I’m not even sure they’re broken.
Most of the time I wonder if the things we think are broken really are; I wonder if anything can ever be complete and exist at the same time. Sure, if your toaster is not working and burning toast left, right, and centre you might argue this is a pretty good solid definition of broken but hold on a moment here. That toaster is pretty excellently functioning as a burning bread machine by the sounds of it, you could patent that baby and sell it as a weapon (related; google “bread weapon” when you have a moment, hilariously bizzare).
I’m being awkward though because I’m sure we all know, at this current moment, I am referring to people. I’m talking about characters. I like broken characters. I like examining all the tiny flaws and the little incidents that make up a person. Maybe sometimes even break that person.
I guess I kind of feel like without faults there is no way characters can be real. Perhaps reality is the real issue here to me. To create is to destroy, is it not? And I think maybe to exist is to be in the making still. We are never finished, we can never be finished, that is the beauty of life. It’s the beauty of a person too. I don’t think I’ve ever met a person not worth knowing, and I don’t think I’ve ever met a person completely whole. It is moments that make up a person, and we are still collecting them. You are still collecting them.
That makes you infinitely fascinating to me. We are all collectors. One person collects words of love, another pictures of interest, and another knowledge. It makes no difference. For we are all adding pieces up to the same thing; a life. Life. Mmmm. Perhaps all this boils down to is that I am totally and irrevocably in awe at the simple miracle of life. Ooops.
What have you learnt about yourself from writing? Do you have a weaponised burnt bread machine? I am thinking of branching out into the cold water probably running a current because this electric contain sure as anything isn’t heating it so when I chuck it at you WATCH OUT business, thoughts? Seriously I cannot be the only person in the world slightly afraid of the connotations of the word PERSONAL? I mean, dude, give me a sensitive subject/barrier/wall and I will SCALE IT no probs, but start a sentence with THIS IS PERSONAL QUESTION and I am basically out.