I’m a coffee addict and a guilty pleasure for me is to sit in a coffee shop relaxing. I usually try to justify this downtime by doing some work while I’m there.
Today I was actually meant to be revising for an exam though (which is another story). I could not settle though, perhaps I was too much on tenterhooks waiting for an expected phone call to concentrate but the study juices were not flowing. So I put down my text book and picked up the story that began here as Watchers. I have written before about the combination of caffeine and creativity (Misbehaving) but today for some reason I could not seem to get up and running.
When Watchers first started it came over to me at least that the writing was direct and unpretentious driven by the character and the events he found himself in.
As the story has expanded I have come up against different characters. And they all seem to want their own style of writing. What I came up against today was a character whose contributions to the narrative always seem to be made at either dawn or dusk. To add to the gothic overtones he has just entered an abandoned settlement with bats roosting in ruined buildings. There is a large well in the centre of the settlement which ran dry centuries before the events of the story and is symbolic of the abandonment of the land by nature.
Perhaps my struggle today was trying to get all the symbolism in my mind straight, or that this character is so different to my main protagonist. Whatever the reason the only way out I could think of, to prevent myself from sitting staring at a blank page, was to try to get some of the symbolism into a poem and see where that takes me. This is the result
Darkness disturbed by dreams of the dying,
The fearful and thoughtless, the lost songs crying.
The derangement of calm in the rush to despair.
The rearrangement of truth, within a soul laid bare.
The barrenness of a womb is like this salt-water tomb,
In which the ghosts of my failure hold my head under water
In violent reaction to distract from my doom.
Hearing in the songs of the sirens your distant laughter.
Famine and loss. This drought of my soul.
This endless desert through which I must crawl.
This cacophony of living just a feast for the crows.
This corrosion, ruin and dust is the end I will know.
I don’t know if it helped but it did at least prevent me sitting there twiddling my thumbs and at the very least I’ve made some connections in my mind. If they are helpful connection I’ll have to wait and see, and at least the coffee was nice.
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