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Creative Writing

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Literature

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Travel

Stream Of Consciousness.


Sometimes when struggling to write, I do this thing that I like to refer to as my ‘stream of consciousness’ where I sit and exude onto paper. Whilst a majority of it is sanctimonious nonsense, I am sometimes able to contrive and extract creative ideas.


I’m currently listening to a violin cover of Yann Tiersen’s Comptine d'un autre été and it is bringing my feelings to the surface. It’s almost like the sound of a violin summons all of your grief to the pinnacle of your skin and you can’t help but fall into a state of mourning. 

I’m not entirely sure where to start today because all of the noise is flittering around in my brain trying to fight for my attention or find form. I like to pretend that my mind looks something like Van Gogh’s Almond Blossom but saying that immediately minimises the chaos and my thoughts are also nowhere near as perfectly-crafted as the grandeur of his art. I remember standing in the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam, staring at a drawing of hands for longer than necessary because of how expressive they were. I suppose I had never thought about it before, the way that hands themselves capacitate more than words. The way that they can beckon, banish people in a small movement. Travelling has definitely made me realise and appreciate the value of body language and the way it is often more powerful than speech. We’re so accustomed to talking for conveying desires and needs and it’s just fascinating how impactful simple movements can be. It reminds me of Lilting and The Killing where instead of dialogue, it is acting and expression that heighten meaning. I’ve always thought that people talk too much and with the evolution of social media, it’s like living in this permanently loud narrative where we can’t escape other people’s dialogue. There is just so much noise, anarchy. No wonder we’re always anxious and stressed, we’re constantly being fed other people’s concerns and experiences to the point where we’re drowning before we even leave our houses.

I think we sometimes write in an attempt to remain alive, to preserve ourselves in a tangible form for our future beings to reflect on. It’s almost like taking a multidimensional photograph of ourselves during this present moment, thereby creating a metric by which to observe progress. ‘This is who you were then’ becomes a dialogue with our future selves. We write because we want to remember what we did, what our dreams were. We want people to see and feel all of the people that we've ever been. We want to remember how far we’ve come, see what we’ve achieved. 
Art itself is about remembering and so we bury ourselves in it as a means of immortalising the body in a world where we're unknowingly fearful of being forgotten.

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