I've started writing poetry again.
Earlier in the month I wanted to blog about how I was drowning in beginnings, both in terms of my writing and the books I'm reading (and in life generally). I will probably still blog about it at some point, after I've fallen out of this little pool of bliss in which I'm currently floating.
On Thursday I told someone that I don't write poetry.
A while ago I thought about what a waste it was that I didn't write more during the bad times last year, and how I had somehow missed out on a way to document the experience.
I'm not sure if all these scenes are relevant to this but they seem oddly appropriate.
Whilst I was lamenting about drowning and trying (and failing) to write a blog post about it (I couldn't get past the beginning), I did things the old fashioned way and went back to pen and paper. And I scribbled. I wasn't allowed to cross anything out. I just wrote. I think one line even reads "Don't cross this out". It wasn't much, and it wasn't profound. A few lines were about this odd half dream I had had the night before where I purposefully jumped off a bridge, fully dressed, in the middle of winter. Not a happy thought, I'll give you that. But somehow those few lines became a poem.
I was listening to Sam Tsui sing "If I Die Young" on YouTube earlier (about 1am-ish because the insomnia is still there) and did the same - I just wrote lines on Word about how I keep getting scared at night. Somehow those lines became two poems.
They're not much. And they're not profound. But I'm oddly proud of them.