Topic awaiting preservation: The Muse was Upon me... (Page 1 of 1)

I thought of this two and a half hours away from home tonight. I have been chanting this in my head like a litany. Nurturing it, breathing life into it, making it a cohesive entity of its own. I have scraped it from the inside of my skull and vomitted it forth wet and steaming in the cold. It screams like a babe searching for the teat of your attention. I present this to you in its rawest form, its purest form. Uneditted and in its first writing.

Enjoy

quote:

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When you run you ride alone. Pulling the long haul connecting those dots on a map we say defines our lives. As you ride through the darkness your chin in your hand, head lolling to the side with the highway blurring into the horizon, your mind begins to wander. A consciousness free to cavort in the forest trees limned only in the frayed remnants from your headlights. Free to search for a way to be freed of this path that goes from nowhere to nowhere. A shimmering light, flickering through the trees like faerie fire in your minds eye captures your thoughts. Is it another car? A home, perchance a haven for some other soul lost in this wasteland of paint and concrete, following signs that only lead to more paint and concrete. Sated in it's search for a kindred soul, even one so cold and impersonal as a burning ball of gas a hundred yards away. Your awareness returns to its run, to its search, heartened that a home has been found. That a home can be found, a place that defines who we really are in this wasteland of paint and concrete with signs that lead us nowhere.

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You've a lovely vocbulary. What's more it's been a long time since I read a poem with such power. Congratulations on a fine work and bravo leaving it unedited.

Shine and shine. :: [Cell=992] :: [See my team's 30 second animation]

Thank You, Bmud!!

I got home and had to get it out or it would have kept me awake all night.

I was hoping for some more responses but... time will bring what it may. I'm glad you liked it.

Is it just me or do other writers absolutely hate a poem/story/whatever that is in their head once they put it down in writing/paint/whatever? I read this after writing it and just felt ill. I posted it anyway and the more I read it the more I feel it's presence returning. Maybe it's because you feel so drained after finally getting this thing that has worried at your thoughts for so long out of your mind. Or maybe it just bites and you can't tell until it is outside of you.

Is anyone else this way? Love it in your head, hate it on paper?

Gilbert, you write, have you ever encountered this?