Free Writing Experiment

Free writing exercise to get the juices flowing, to dislodge what little creative thought I have going on in the department of writing today. Timer was set for 15 minutes, pen hit paper and I hand wrote the following:

Free

Free

Free

These are the first words that pop into my head as I think about this activity. Well drrrrrrr.

Stop Thinking

But I gotta otherwise I die.

A constant struggle between what I think I should be and what I feel. Common right?

Sometimes its good to question a situation in feeling rather than analytical thought. If I think of what I should be thinking about a current situation and I thought that my thought was right, it’s always ended abruptly. Dead end. Maybe that’s been my destiny to bring me to now, to this moment. Maybe this moment has already occurred and I’m re-living it with different outcomes as the previous experience taught me an alternative way of being, behaving, taught me a new lesson to not be repeated.

Ate too many tortilla chips at lunch. I knew when I was eating I needed to stop but the salt monster inside kept munching.

I’m shuffling in my chair, feel weird to write with no stop, it hurts my hand too! I can’t stare out of the window. I love to stare out of the window. No wonder my writing is still in my head, my stories aren’t birthed into the physical yet… they’re cooking. I need to just get shit out of the oven to feel the cool breeze of release. That’s what I need to do but what I want ain’t what I need and what I want ain’t gonna do me no good sometimes.

That’s the truth Emily Goldthorpe.

Names. They’re funny things. If I were called Charlotte like my parents were thinking about before Emily popped into their head… was it mum or dad who thought of Emily? Question for them. So if I were called Charlotte would I be different, do names bring a certain frequency into our existence? Why all the labels anyway? I’d still be lovable (I hope) if my name were taken from me. My heart doesn’t beat because of what I’m called.

Maybe I’d be the one that no one can relate to, as they’ve never met anyone without a name before. What would they call me in their phone contacts? My Facebook would be different but who really gives a crap about that, Facebook is a strange, addictive, I-don’t-really-wanna-be-on-here-but-I-am crazy thing.

I’m still intellectualising my thoughts as I write… I’m forward planning my words, my thoughts. This is not flowing as organically as I’d expected. I was hoping for some grandly obscure masterpiece, once the blocks were down, the magic happens. Maybe it is. Problem in life? Probably

Flow

Flow

Flow

There’s a big void, it feels normal to intellectualise my thoughts at this time of the day. I set aside meditation time, yoga time and then I can let shit go. I’m getting better at that during the moments I set aside for it. The rest of the time feels structured, must more challenging to just ‘be’. What is ‘being’ anyway? I am a human being. I’m being. I’m being right now. I think language is a gift and a curse but then I suppose all things are. Through good intentions comes pain in misunderstandings. The Yin and the Yang, with the bad can tail the good. We need opposites to experience the fullness of existence. So much to think about when you’re trying not to think too much and just let the pen flow.

So much

How much

Much

Fuck much

I knew I’d swear at some point. Dirty habit. When I do something unexpected like bash my arm on the door or kick my left foot with my right (it can happen) I often, more times than not… SHIT. I shouldn’t swear but I do and I ain’t got kids so who worries?

Beep, beep, beep. Time is up.

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s