Friday, October 20, 2006

The Color Black

There are days when the words simply wont leave my brain and paint themselves upon the paper.
There are days when the only color I see is black.
There are days when no matter what inspirational lesson I try and take from life, there is simply no hope, no future, nothing worthwhile.

Those days pass in a haze without a page, a paragraph, a sentence even nary a word make their way to the paper in front of me. They seem to be a waste of time, of effort - a waste of life.

They scare me those days of nothing. They scare the living daylights out of me. Not moving forward there is nothing accomplished.. Not moving forward forces regression. There is nothing static in life. Forward or into hell. There is no time to regress anymore. I cannot afford the Stygian blackness of life's pain.

The dawn slowly comes. It creeps up, and though the black lingers it is powerless against the light. And then my mind suddenly realizes that during that dark period something deep inside of my inner being was at work. Sifting, thinking, judging, feeling, understanding, touching with soft tendrils the very essence of the pain. Somewhere deep inside even while my consciousness was totally centered around the nothingness of no light, while my soul delved deep in Saturnalia, something deep inside was still very much alive creating the letters which form into words the words which form into sentences the sentences into paragraphs and  paragraphs into a story.

I have learned to welcome the dark days. I no longer fear them as I once did. And yet I always fail to remember while sitting without the benefit of a candle to light my way, that there is light at the end of this hell.

This is the only path I know to write what I want to write. It is full of fear, loneliness and the pathways of purgatory. Yet it too is part of the process of creation. Almost as if we strive to imitate God in His creation, where he created darkness and light and they existed as one until he separated them. Thus the darkness too, though feared, is part of the process of creating light. It too is part of creation.

There are days when the only color I see is black.

On those days I always fail to remember the process of writing makes me a partner in creation.

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Categories: short stories, writing, on writing series
Getting Wasted - Writing & Editing & Publishing Short Stories

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1 comment:

Bhaswati said...

You express it so beautifully, Teddy. Feelings, no matter how terrible they are, pass. None of them are permanent. Yet we identify so much with them that we end up suffering in the process.

About the act of creation, I couldn't agree more with you.