Sunday, March 17, 2013

In which Tryph writes... before

I've been going through old note books from a time in my life where I was never without a pen and paper.  A time where I still had stars in my eyes, and dreams in my heart.  A time where I was a writer.

Oh boy, did I write constatnly, on whatever I could find.  I used to compose a lot of poetry on post it notes. I don't think I have most of them anymore, because honestly most of it is/was crap... but I've been digging through my personal archives in the hopes of finding that spark.

So far, it's just been waves of nostalgia, and the vague inclination to write without the drive.  If that makes sense.  Writers block at it's worst right here. Been this way for a while... I can't seem to write more than a few pages without losing my mind and deleting it.

Anyhow... here's some of my history.

(for note, I love flipping through old note books.  See, they used to live in my purse, so all manner of things would get shoved between the pages.  Photographs {because I was previously notorious for not carrying a wallet and thus had no pictures of my child handy without a notebook} ticket stubs for movies, concerts.  Note books are like time capsules for me.)

Breathe for me - I've lost for you - Take one breath
I've lost all - run like the wind - my own stupid fault
You LED - I Followed
You long for love - I taste Hate
You chose_____ - I chose anger
TOO BAD I DON'T ACTUALLY HAVE A CHOICE

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