Writing in Jail

I’m in jail. It’s ironic because the fact has been proven that educated people are marginally less likely to be incarcerated. And I suppose it’s actually only funny if I tell you that the reason I’m in jail is because of school. Now you can laugh.

I read the first paragraph of a book, and it was incredibly insightful and beautiful. They were describing a forest and the way they placed the words onto the page made each letter practically skip into my ears. Well, I suppose you don’t really hear words spoken in a book, but my eyes did a pretty darn good job of telling my ears the story. It’s like listening to a truly talented orator telling the story aloud. They can be geysers and waterfalls when they need to be, letting the pool of golden letters arrange themselves just so on the tip of their tongues.  They spring forward in little swirls. Each chilled syllable continues its whirling around every set of eager ears in the room like snowflakes, until a single flake lands on the tip of an eyelash. It is a cold and refreshing splash of design to be guzzled eagerly like a cool glass of peach tea on a humid summer night. It’s dormant and frosty meaning is then slowly melted by the mind of the listener. They contemplate the exact meaning of what was said with the heat of intrigue, and as the concept is understood and internalized, the wintry drop that remains from those delicately trained syllables leaps from the lash, in a sacrifice for the next vital piece of the story. You see, because even as beautiful and captivating as that drop of the story became to you, there is a more beautiful snowflake soon to arrive that glitters even more than the one before.

Of course, not once was a sparkling piece of snow literally on your eyelid, but one can almost feel the thrilling sensation of frost slipping through their eyelashes as a cool water droplet, and the sound of clicking ice cubes, and the singing of bells. That’s also amusing because eyes don’t talk, that’s what mouths are for. Speech really is not the first thing you think of when you read a book, but it’s what the book is doing. It is talking to you, and I suppose that is why people get lost in them, lost in awe. You may get lost in a painting as well, but not all intended feelings and meanings can be conveyed at all times.

For instance, try to illustrate the exhilarating feeling experienced by a father as he holds his son close to watch fireworks on the fourth of July for the first time. He and his wife had gone through hell and back to be able to begin a family. Even after their son’s birth, the reward for their love and dedication, doctors informed them that their boy was most likely going to die in the first couple of days. Against all odds, he became a healthy 6 month-old, and now the three stand beneath the night sky and watch it explode with light. The wife kisses her husband on the cheek and they smile at each other with a purity of joy that is seldom witnessed; it’s shining in their eyes. The father looks down at his healthy baby boy and watches as his little miracle stares beaming up at his first fireworks show out of many to come. Now convey the entirety of that situation to a complete stranger with a still, 2D piece of paper. It’s impossible. How do you even begin to tell that story with a picture? You need thousands of pictures to illustrate just how beautiful that moment is. I guess that’s why someone thought movies were a viable solution to the artist’s dilemma.

Either way, you see where my fascination with the writing of stories and amazing people and every beautiful thing in this world comes from. And I want to write my own story. I think I could. I want to do a lot of things. I want to travel. I want to learn Japanese. I want to scrapbook. I still haven’t been able to start on my freshman year scrapbook that will tell the story of all of the amazing things I saw and adventures that I partook in. That was years ago. People keep bringing up little things that took place in the past and I go, “Oh yeah!! That was incredible! How did I forget about that?!?” How DID I forget about that??? That’s another reason people write, because the loss of a gorgeous memory is a sick thing. To have to worry about potentially letting it go to waste off in a land where all forgotten things go is a burden that can be lifted by writing the wholeness of the moment down where it will never be misplaced. I can feel some of those memories sneaking off, not like they want to, but like some monster hiding in the dark corners of my mind is dragging them slowly away, like a cold child gingerly pulling the blanket off of her parent’s bed so as not to wake them. Those wonderful times last year are slipping, and I need to solidify them in that book where I may simply open it back up and the flood of reminiscence it brings along washes my golden memories straight from those sneaky claws. Even so, I’m worried that when I eventually do attempt to recollect all of those times, the pointy nails will already have done a number on the actuality of what happened.

I want to adventure, I want to explore, and I want to live. All of these things I have not been able to do in a very, very long time, and I miss it dearly. I feel like a slave to the institution trying to give me freedom in life. I have these horrible what-ifs often; what if I didn’t have a speech contest, band performance, or literally a mountain of homework every weekend? The whole point of school is to prepare us for the future, allow us options in life. I have no options at the moment. Sometimes I feel like if they just cut off the massive burden for a while I could be successful just on my own. I could discover this wonderful idea, or be the new J.K. Rowling, or Stephen King or do something extraordinary and make my own trail. It’s almost like this influx of information is stifling my ability to produce my ideas in any effective way. I’m stuck every spare moment of my day doing something for someone that I don’t want to do, and when I finally decide to just stop for a while to do something I want to do, I can barely move I’m so exhausted. But if I ever want to write I need inspiration, which is fueled by the experiences one gets when they go do something; they put themselves out there. What happens when there’s nothing left to write about? Then they’ll be sorry, or at least I hope, because that means they missed my writing, and THAT means that they liked it. : )

6 comments on “Writing in Jail

  1. TwdYD says:

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  2. Opinionated Man says:

    Wow, your writing is superb. I like your sentence structure, that might sound a bit nerdy but I actually pay attention to that kind of stuff. Thanks for visiting my blog, I have added you as well. Keep up the nice writing, I’ll visit again shortly. 🙂

  3. jser67 says:

    Great Stuff here! My kid ALWAYS said she wanted to go to jail. 3 square meals and a uniform- what could be better- yes, I did SCREAM her name out of a window- it worked- too bad she’s thrown me out of her life….another poem? Keep posting- I’ll be back…

  4. Penny Bowen says:

    quite interesting, still stick around

  5. J-Bo says:

    Ah, but you don’t need to travel the world to have adventures. School is an adventure all its own. Two of the most fantastic years of my life were spent in graduate school in a tiny rural town in Illinois. It’s all what you make it. I even managed to write a book on the side in those two years- if you want something enough, you can find the time somehow. Good luck!

  6. mj says:

    Thanks for stopping by my blog. I liked reading what you write here. Straight from the heart…:) Beautiful things and absolutely love your drumming credentials too. 🙂 Keep flying… and hold on to the music.
    See you around!

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