Introspection

Within my writing, I always keep my intended audience in mind by shaping how I structure sentences and how complicated I make them to understand. The more straightforward essays/projects are for a younger audience, and the more complex and thought-provoking ones are for whoever can understand them. I have written stories about things important to me, like finding light in a dark and evil world, finding color in a world of black and white, and finding God in my lowest moments, and those stories are more for an audience of peers. I have written poetry about truth and ideals and how they should be used together instead of at odds; that one had the intended audience of adults and teens who care for the subject. Most of what I have written so far focuses on people my age and above, while I have written a few poems and short stories for anyone, including kids and adults alike. 

The concept of audience intrigues me. Am I, the author, also an audience member of my work? Looking back at my previous writings, I often feel disgusted and cringe away from my older projects. If I feel this way about an essay or short story I am working on, I will restart it if a new idea hits me, like with what I am writing now. This is my second time writing this, but I’m following a new idea. I wish I had saved the poems and stories I had written in the middle and most of the high school; I had a bad habit of deleting them or not keeping them to use later. I realize now that I would have been much better off with most of my old projects than without them. I remember a poem I wrote about the concept of a black-and-white world; that poem was one of my favorites that I had written, but I never thought to save it so I could see it later. I am my own worst critic, it seems. 

With my general audience and audience of myself, who am I writing for? Am I writing for an audience outside of myself like I intend to, or am I writing for myself?

Writing and I

My relationship with writing has been positive; I love writing, and I find the process challenging but enjoyable within that challenge. Sometimes, I find distaste in writing something I am not interested in, and I know many peers who feel the same way about it. Over time, this relationship with writing has grown more robust and passionate; I love writing now more than ever. Throughout my years of writing for fun and in English classes, I have learned more and more about different styles and types of writing. Writing is an art but also a form of expression.

Writing is often challenging regarding how I need to focus; otherwise, what I am writing will only make sense if I write about something completely random and out of the ordinary. I cannot recall when I loathed writing; I have always enjoyed writing to an extent. Whether it’s a story about made-up characters or a poem, I have always enjoyed making them and reading them afterward. Sometimes, the most challenging part about writing is reading and disliking it after you’ve created it; we are our worst critics. 

My enjoyment of writing and creating stories originated in elementary school when I would make comic books with my friends. We had a whole series of comics by the end of it. It was about a bunch of classmates in an alternate world with superpowers of our choosing; I drew most of the characters and collaborated with the class to add more and more aspects to the story. Looking back on it now, it was a mess of a story, and the timeline makes no sense, but it certainly was fun and likely marked the start of my love of storyline creation and writing.

Turmoil

Turmoil

Once there was a Turquoise Blaze, 

The Screaming Moonlight –

That pains me like the sunshine

In the migraine days –

Thoughts of my mind leading me in –

the alluring glow –

Internal turmoil within,

Like a Spastic Sloth –

Currently concealed

Inside the brain safe –

The Aquamarine Inferno,

What is it you are –

In pain, distressed, and confused from

Many thoughts to think –

You are as fast as a wildfire,

You old Brain of Mine –

Reflections

 Reflections

This wooden table

 where is its color?

  So mysterious,

   why is it monochrome,

is my perception blind?

 surely it must be coated

  with a colorless veil

   that only I can see.

This table is wooden,

 I can tell

  because of it’s specific patterns

   jumping all across the surface.

My gaze wanders

 and I’m surrounded

  by mirrors –

reflections of myself

 Shine with color

  like a memory

My sore eyes still closed as always,

 I remember

  the joy I once had

   the friends I held close

Where are they now?

 “We’re right here”

   I think I heard something,

    but there’s nothing but this table and mirrors

I look at my reflection

 it reaches through the mirror

  handing me a photograph of a time I now remember

   I open my eyes – suddenly I see – love

The Yellow Tassel

The yellow tassel looks at me with a glimpse of wonder at what I’m writing. I will not tell it, nor will it know what I’m suddenly writing about! How foolish a creature pinned to a wall thinking and wondering at the unknown. Its yellow faceless figure stares a never-ending stare in my direction, or is it staring in all orders; no, no, that’s a preposterous thought; it's only looking at me, the one writing right next to it. It will never know the bland, bright McDonald's mustard yellow trying to read what I write. I looked up from my laptop and stared for a minute, and it shifted! I swear it did! I look around and see the door has just been flung open to allow my RA to enter the lobby; he sits down, but what does it matter; this is about the yellow tassel, or it was as the light shifted into darkness. I'm sitting here on this couch, looking from the tassel to my computer. Finally, standing up with my things, I decided to be done writing for the day. Well, until next time!

It’s quiet. The yellow tassel stares at me from across the room, visible behind my six friends sitting on the couch and my RA beside the tassel. I almost forgot about the tassel only half a week later, but now, it's staring again. It’s an ugly stare looking into my soul. The tassel disgusts me; it’s haunting, never seizing glare. I’m unsure what to do; its gaze is ever-growing, the mustard yellow glare driving a shiver up my spine as all I can do is look. I stare intently until one of my friends looks over at me, which I notice immediately. I diverted my eyes from the tassel for a second, and suddenly, the feeling of terror left me. Looking back at my laptop, I finished this sentence and went to bed.