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I love writing, thats about it.

Message from Writer

Just a Christian teen who watched a masterclass saying I need others to review my writing, so here I am eager for people to tell me everything I’m doing wrong!! (Believe it or not that isn’t sarcasm.)
Also I guess people put quotes on these so here’s mine:
“I try to create sympathy for my characters, then turn the monsters loose.”
— Stephen King
Since monster isn’t always literal and isn’t always about the thing in the story.

The great equalizers and the great absence

June 9, 2020


The great equalizers of the human race: death and art. No one can sit there and tell me that art isn’t in everything. I don’t understand how people could not see the beauty in symmetry, in a flower that looks different every year, in a piece of music that rips into you. Art isn’t anything other than everything. What is the planet earth if not just a giant art work? Its painted and robed in blues greens and whites. Its skin is covered in the dancing lights of urbanization and is surrounded by the dancing lights of curiosity. Our lives are simply the columniation of every form of art we encounter. If you mean to tell me that knowing the feeling of joy because I’ve experienced sorrow isn’t art, then I’m here to tell you that you are wrong. You are wrong because art is beautiful and if I cant find the beauty in these emotions then how am I supposed to except them? The great equalizers of the human race are death and art because you can not live with out them. Isn’t it said that cold is simply the absence of heat? No, no its not because the cold doesn’t really exist. Why? Because science deems heat real. We decided that non-heat wasn’t fitting so we gave a name to the absence of something. Is not life not the cold to death’s heat. Is life not just the absence of death? I seem to feel it is so, at least on some level. I say that art and death are equalizers because you cannot live without them. But is life not something you can live without experiencing? I don’t believe so because life is what happens while waiting for death. Living is different than life. Living is color, and music, and freedom. Living is tasting nothing but bland disgust, and it is hearing nothing but silence, and feeling as if trapped is your natural state. How do we expect ourselves to recognize joy until we have been consumed with sorrow. When we look back on childhood we often see it as a wonderful time. Maybe we have favorite memories that bring us joy or a quick laugh. Was It like that when we felt that moment? Now its hilarious that we drove a toy truck down the aisle of the grocery store screaming as if we were one of the firemen upon it, it caused our mother to be so embarrassed. But when we where children, when we felt that day unfold, it was different. You don’t remember the story, only the way your mother retold it to you when you where older. In truth, you didn’t do it for nothing. You had dreams to be a fireman and it was all you desired. You begged your mom for that toy truck to play with but she said she wouldn’t have such a noisy toy inside her home. You were discouraged of course but you were a child, and if there’s one thing children can do its find a way to get the joy they expect. If mom didn’t want the toy in her house then you would simply play with it in the aisle. You see we were all once free enough to be children running down an aisle in order to obey our mother but still feel elation. Now we see our actions as embarrassing and that of silly little children’s games. How is this not art? How are we supposed to know that we have no idea what we are saying? Death and art are the great equalizers of the human race because they are the easiest ways through a persons masks to see their self. Wether I’m a seven year old being astonished at the skills of musicians and ballerinas during the dance of the sugar plum fairy or I’m a teenager alone in my bed crying because one line of a song is playing over and over in my head until I feel less alone and it terrifies me. You see the way I hide. You see my mask drop for just a few moments in an art. You see it in how I write these words even now. I am showing you myself in a way I never have before. What is art if not the knife that cuts life away from living? I want to show you all my brokenness. I want you to see the way I hate the things inside myself. I cant just do that with my words. At least not my own words. I create characters from the broken pieces of me. Every time I let myself break I pick up the shattered remains and place a piece in the molds of characters and homes. I don’t let myself break often but when I do, I shatter into enough pieces to fill an ocean of words. I simply want my art to exist so you can see me living. I want you to see the sorrow I am surrounded by in every turn. I want you to know so I don’t have to be alone in my living. I want my art to become my death so I don’t have to separate the absence of death from my life anymore. I want an equalizer to happen quicker so that I don’t have to start naming the things absent. I either want death to claim me gently or my life to spin with color and misunderstanding. I want to suffer not because I am adrenaline junky of any sort. I am much to a coward to be one. I want to suffer because when I’m done suffering I will be free to look back at it as worth it. I want to suffer because when its all said and done I can choose to become a hero. No one good ever came about from good. And no one great ever new they were. You cant recognize being color blind till you know other colors exist. On some level that excites me. It means that when I recognize that I feel lost or alone I once felt sure and loved. On another level it makes me feel even more lost. What if, I see this time as gray because its as close as I can get to guessing what blue looks like? What if in reality, I’ll never get to see the colors? How am I supposed to know if these colors are just dull or the most bland they will ever be for me? What if living isn’t just about the grey and it isn’t just about the colors. Living is about a spectrum of good and bad; sorrow and joy. I’m not ready for it to be nothing yet. I am ready to be living. I’m not ready for my absence of life yet. I still want to see what art I am made of. I hope you will to.
The way I realized I was meant to be a writer is I looked at what I did when I was upset or angry or feeling anything in excess. What I did was write. This is one such example. I promise I’m not suicidal or even depressed, I just want people to see things differently. 


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  • June 9, 2020 - 12:33am (Now Viewing)

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1 Comment
  • outoftheblue

    this is beautiful. you've excellently portrayed your thoughts into a piece that is brimming with truths about daily life and the way we perceive it. I'm so glad you joined WtW!

    about 1 year ago