Stream of Consciousness, or For Old Time’s Sake

I found this the other day – a piece of prose/stream of consciousness that I wrote a little while ago. I’m not sure what it means anymore – I do not feel this way now, but for whatever reason, this flowed out of me at a sadder time.

The reason I’m sharing it is because I am amazed at the kind of writing we can accomplish when we are emotionally charged. That is not to say that this is the best writing I can accomplish – but it is definitely compelling. The word usage, the way the sentences are formed, the hazy subject. Honestly, I’m a little jealous of myself.

Stretched Thin

Well I am stretched thin like taffy on a pull, like punishment, like a liar. Thought that this was normal until today, when I looked at myself in the mirror and saw someone else dressed as me. She wore my face but not my expression and it didn’t worry me, it only made me sad. I wish I had a true concept of time because I think I’m running out of it, but then I’m told that it doesn’t matter anyway and I leave it and let it affect me way too much and I tell no one. I let it creep into the crannies in my brain and slowly mold over, like good ideas left out of the fridge too long. Today I realized that I have no friends. Who will go to my funeral when I’m gone? You’ll die before I will, and everyone else will probably have forgotten me. I try to fit in, I pretend that I matter to myself but I’m afraid to ask everyone else to let me matter to them. I’m afraid to weasel my way into their lives and force myself to matter because I think they might be offended. I know I shouldn’t care, but I do care. I want them to like me, and I want you to like me, but I want it to be real and not the smile that you save for office Christmas parties, get togethers with unfamiliar people, and me. And me. And me. And he and I…we used to have a spark. I don’t know how big it was, but it was there, for a while, and he liked me, and thought I was pretty neat. And now I’m just kind of there – I’m a name he calls when he remembers that he forgot to wash the last pan in the sink. If I asked him for a favor, he would say yes, emphatically, but he does not want to hang out with me afterward, he doesn’t want to share his friends, and he doesn’t want to let me understand what he’s been doing since we stopped being a spark. I work – I will do. But I’m not what he wants and he will never ask me to come over when he is in trouble, he will never call when he needs someone to talk to. I am not friend material. I am not his material. And I am barely your material. Maybe I will try to be more selfish. And weasel my way into their lives, and forgive them if they are offended, because they will learn to love me. Or maybe I should lie down on this table, and forget them and forget him and forget you and close my eyes.

What do you think? Do you find that your writing changes when you are going through an emotional time? Is it better? Is it worse?

As for me, I’m not really sure. But I am intrigued.

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Comments
3 Responses to “Stream of Consciousness, or For Old Time’s Sake”
  1. unabridgedgirl says:

    Emotionally charged writing, I think, can go one way or the other – – usually it is raw and wonderful. Your writing was sad, like you said, but it was pretty.

    • Thank you : ) I think I agree with you – emotionally charged writing can be really beautiful for the simple fact that it isn’t trying to be grammatically correct or well structured. Raw, just like you say!

  2. I love writing that just flows from the heart and soul onto the page. It’s authentic for the moment in time and that’s one of the things that makes it lovely.

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