The act of taking what you feel and making it nothing. Like light made small.
“You whisper “shhh” to yourself, you hold yourself inside yourself, you ◊.”
I’ve been meaning to put up recordings of me reading some of my work for a while now but every time I do, I find something wrong with it.
So I’m just using the first take of the first thing I wanted to record and hopefully this will be a regular thing.
So many things are produced and synthesized, I decided to keep this as it was recorded, with a truck driving past in the background, reading the same words twice. An aural fingerprint of the moments in which I read it.
You can listen to it for free on soundcloud or buy it on iTunes for 99c.
Considering this is now my day job, I should perhaps be more motivating or try and sell this harder but I’ve always been successful by being me and being honest, so I’m going to stick with that. This is my voice and this is what it sounds like, this is what it sounds like when I turn pages, this is what the room I’m in sounds like and this is what it is.
I don’t know if you noticed
But we got old while we weren’t looking
I saw your picture on Facebook the other day, my friend
And someone got up and threw a bucket of time in your face
I think when we’re young, we’re meant to fight
But there were so few things left to fight
So we stayed up all night drinking
And hanging on the roofs of cars
And running through the streets
And hoping we didn’t wake our parents up
When we got home
We got old and now
There’s nothing better than crawling into bed
With the one you love
Or even a couch
No pool tables
No watching the sunrise
I think you’re still young
When you try and fight this
But we got old, my friend
And I know, because I’m happy
With being old.
Used to indicate a constant rising of the spirit, a desire to leave the body and float above it for a moment, to stand in awe at the majesty of the universe.
“He walked outside after everyone else had gone to sleep and looked up. Despite what had happened, beneath the billions of stars, in the silence of the night, he felt a constant Î”
Stop telling people what you write about.
People will read what you write and if it’s any good, they’ll tell you what you’re writing about.
Knowing what you’re actually writing about makes about as much sense as blue eyes knowing that they’re blue.
You can’t see yourself.
Don’t call yourself “the boy with stars in his eyes” or “the girl who loves wondering about things.”
Make your name blank.
Let your work give you a name.