I sit and watch you all attempt to pour your brains onto your papers. You think that you are putting so much thought into your words, but you know nothing. Your words, meant to be so meaningful, have no meaning whatsoever. They are as phoney as childhood fairytales, stories told just to pass the time. There is no heart, no feeling, nothing real or raw. There is no truth in what you write. You are thinking too much before you put down your words, and are straining out your creativity with each passing second, until there is nothing left but fake, pitiful attempts at interest of belief. You write what you expect to write, what is expected of you to write. You ask me what is wrong with this. Where is the heart? Where is the soul hidden in your words that you carry with you and yet rarely expose? What is your motivation, other than an "A" or gold star in class? What is the point of writing if you don't care? And you don't care. Open up and find that river carrying the words that never have left your soul, the words that have been shrouded behind a velvet curtain since you grew up and learned to hide what you feel. You learned to hide the part of you that is most real. Backtrack to the longago days, many years and miles ago, and find yourself there. Once in the open, on the pages before you, perhaps you will see who you really are. Stop pretending. Stop hiding. Just... write.
As you try to write.
October 2, 2007