let the light shine on your efforts

"The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun. Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us" Ecclesiastes 1:9-10
Don't let Solomon stifle your creativity - pick up the Book and get the context of the futility of trying to create some temporal immortality, toiling under the sun. Bearing that in mind, just because it's been said or done before, doesn't mean that your personal touch on something won't make it ring true for someone now.
There's all these inspirational quotes about going for it, you can do it, some followed with an at least you tried (anyone else thinking of Lord Tennyson's famous "Tis better to have loved and lost"?)
But then there's that crystallizing moment, when something you've seen, read, heard, so many times before, suddenly clicks. This quote was it for me when I read it the other day:

“If you’re going to risk and maybe fail, 

fail at something that matters. 

Fail gloriously 

so that even in failure, 

lives change.”

never never land?

I've climbed to the top of these stairs before. They are the same stairs, turning, cold stone stairs climbing a tower, ever climbing, clockwise, clockwise, upward, upward. Never reaching the top of the tower, the final step brings me to the top of a straight, regular staircase, alone, and a dark fogginess covering anything but the stairs ... I've seen this before, the same never getting anywhere feeling. Just when the hard part is done, it turns out that was the easy part. Finally, I know what I'm talking about - wait no, I know I don't. Read back to the childish journal entries of the past, five, ten, fifteen years... wait, it's the same voice, the same soul, the same newness and naivety. Am I trapped in an emotional never never land?

frowny-face

it's not a dislike of fried eggs
it's not a spontaneous dance-off with a five year old
nor Mrs. Peacock, aghast

it's tearing up, watery eyes
traitorous lump in your throat
with a heartache stomach-burn
depressive writing, another page to turn   ...

Reposted: english

I want to write

of cold, juicy plumbs,

stolen from the ice box

that taste the sweeter for it.

I want to write

of his last duchess

if anyone wonder what happened

to the faire-one's successor.

I want to write

of tomatoes

taking of a town in June,

and settling on a kitchen sideboard.

I want to write

of a sad, put-away aunt,

who brought with her

away a sweet innocent, drowned.

I want to write

of Désirée's baby,

accepting aweful fate in life

though it is not your own to bear.

I want to write of

the soul cleansing white sun,

freedom in the breath of the llano,

and know the understanding of freedom.

Am I writing yet?