Closing Time


I was never good at writing about the truth in all it's explicit severity, which was probably the reason I started writing poetry in the first place. A sugary coat of vivid visions scatterred over scarred dreams and held together with some eloquence helped me swallow the hurt of a failed relationship at first, and then, it eased it's way into the possibly false notion of talent.

I really don't think of myself anything special, but I soon found a virtual audience that was kind enough to let me continue dreaming. I found that there wasn't much difference between courage and confidence, and I realized I had a bit of both. One thing led to another, and it was too late by the time I bechanced upon the conclusion that it was the art that held me hostage. So much so, infact, that I didn't even care about the generally accepted principles that governed this branch of art, I knew what I needed to know about Iambs, Trochees, Spondees, Dactyls, Double dactyls and what have you, but never adhered to any specific structures. I might even have created my own meterical foots for all I care. It was personal, although I seldom wrote merely for personal gain.

Although as I progressed, it seemed evident that my predilection for orotundity and grandiloquence will never feel the need to cover up or hide under any false pretence. Neither did I ever feel the need to justify the befuddling setups that I built most of my poems over. It was rather unfortunate that my brand of articulation earned me a reputation of being too "pretentious".

"There's something quite wrong about what you write and how you write it, but I just can't seem to put my finger on it", said an online reviewer once. I knew exactly what he meant.

Something I wish I had known earlier on in my life is that you can't improvise imagination, it always screws things up when you try to squeeze a confession out of muse. But anyhow, poetry made it all seem worthwhile for a whole year, and now: one mental breakdown, two severe (writer's) blocks, and more than a hundred poems later, I bid thee adieu.

For the usual reasons, of course. I need a break, time for myself, to rethink about my life and get away from this glaring monstrosity that had me enslaved for most of my adolescence. That I shall return is an artist's promise, and I always keep my promises whenever I can. There will be those of you who will appreciate a tear drenched goodbye and a hug or maybe even a goodbye poem at this point, but I only have these lines that Rob Thomas sang to give to them:

"So gather up your jackets,
and move into the exits,
I hope you have found a friend,
Closing time,
Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end".

Bye.

3 comments:

Shobhna Guerin said...

I have to admit that the idea of not reading something new by you every so many days is a little shocking, and I shall miss the experience.

I hope you find what you're looking for in your time away.

Joylita said...

Good luck with everything. May Peace be yours and happiness too :)

Take care!

Merili said...

For the first time in ages I see you writting about your self in prose and not poetry. It is strange I must admit but also interesting to read. Taking a holiday? So am I. Lack of inspiration, changed blog name and not more mental break downs :) the wheel will turn and as you commented to my blog the universe will unfold evenly :)
Thank you for that, it made me feel nice. It is a true positive comment which brought a smile to my face. Every time I get sad I will remember that.
Don't stop writing.

Post a Comment

 

This content comes from a hidden element on this page.

The inline option preserves bound JavaScript events and changes, and it puts the content back where it came from when it is closed.

Click me, it will be preserved!