Originally published at my RedBubble portfolio, 2009.
15 May 2009 11:11 PM
I’m sure it’d be easier to write if circumstances were nicer. If the sounds coming in my window were merely the rain, wind and rustling of trees. Instead, these are drowned out by the roaring vehicles as some fools drag race on the slippery main road. The nearby tollway hums with continual traffic. Someone repeatedly drives a motorbike past our house, probably lapping the neighbourhood.
Once in a while the wind picks up again, cold, wet and strong. It batters the flimsy windows on the side of the house, and make the tree branches squeak against the fence. It whistles in through the window. When I hear the wind, it’s like opening a floodgate of memories. Treasured memories. Of a quieter, more raw, more alive place. Where the weather is somehow more tangible, more real.
So, I’m sitting here, late on a Friday night, wishing I could write something good. Something poetic. Something that would stir up life and excitement and mystery. Something that’ll make me feel good about being alive, and being awake two hours after bedtime.
I feed off my surroundings. The image in my mind – of a moonlit, wind lashed, wild lonely hillside, with an old house perched on a hillside and no signs of human life for miles around except the soft and friendly yellow light shining from the kitchen window – seems to be lost in the suburban noise. Is it possible that I might only be able to write what I really feel when I’m in the places I love? Or is it just another excuse?