From The Fishbowl

Scribbles about stuff

Psychowriting

Hello.

Earlier today, I sat down and started freewriting. That being the process of jotting down whatever comes to mind without a second thought and just seeing what happens. Ordinarily, the process turns out utter crap, but at least helps the creative juices get flowing. Today, my freewriting session turned out something that I actually quite like for some reason. I don’t really know why. I thought I’d show you. Have fun.

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WBW – FILDI.

 

Four white Beatles, walking ‘cross the road.

Four white Beatles, walking ‘cross the road.

And if one white Beatle, should accidentally something

There’d be three white Beatles, walking ‘cross the road.

 

RANDOM WORKS OF FICTION MAKE THE WORLD TURN

OUTSTANDING WORKS OF FICTION MAKE THE WORLD BURN

 

Never before have I thought I’d be doing this at random, making silly words into silly sentences that barely make sense except for the fact that they run in formation and use a level of syntax synonymous with the creation of English Language sentences. One could almost call it poetry, were it not for the fact that poetry is dull and boring and leaves more to the imagination than a piece of writing should. But then again, there can be some beauty in that, in the not knowing, in the reading between the lines and the flow of letters and syllables up and down a page.

I don’t know if this is supposed to be some sort of healing process, or perhaps is just my fried creative juices crying out in pain and shouting WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?!?!?!? and this is the only way that I can control them. Maybe I’m finally realising there’s more to writing than prose and poetry and there can be something inbetween. Something with flow, that is beauty epitomised, but also something that I can do.

It could just be me rambling. I am sat staring into glass onto ‘ink’ formed of 1s and 0s that doesn’t even exist. I am focussed for the first time in God knows how long, and I am not even doing anything but writing. Just writing. The words flow from finger to page without second thought, or even first thought, and all that exists in my mind are words and fingers and the joyful despair of everything around me.

I do not know if this feeling will last, or even if it exists at all, for I am focussed and nothing will stop me until I stop myself.

And I have.

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