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The sight of a quill frustrates me; yet, it is fascinating. The thin long black body mocks me, for it is the same no matter what country you reside in. The temporary tip gleams maliciously, ready to mark my skin if I do not handle the quill with care. Though when I grasp the thing within my hand and slide the jeering tip into the darkest ink I own, my fascination doubles and my frustration settles in the back of my throat and threatens my fingers to tremble. And yet, somehow, the quill has now become a part of me. The quill feeds itself from my blood, which has deepened to black. It draws my blood in thin streaks, dirtying white paper in attempt to make it beautiful. The paper lies still, taking the quill’s quick lashes, only screaming when I pick it up then put it down. My blood mars its flesh with my thoughts and dreams, language and visions. But it is all imperfect.
I know that what begins as a wondrous illusion caressing nerve endings in my brain, never comes out through the quill as I see it. It’s always distorted and scarred. The quill always laughs at me, always in control. I stare at my hands, smeared in ink. I sit, quiet, always wondering why I bother trying. Why do I try to control the quill when it is I who will always lose? Why do I continue to push, spilling myself onto paper and wounding it? Is it because someday I believe I will succeed? Overpower the quill without smashing its tip, without snapping its delicate body? That someday the quill and I will be friends, not similar strangers? Does the quill long for me, as I for it? I know only that it tolerates me, because we both cause each other pain.
Lucid are the words I can never seem to express and clear are the images I can never show. Yet I wonder if I am the only one that feels this way. I tend to never finish what the quill and I begin, sometime it’s just too much to bear. Too draining. After I decide I am done, I usually take the motionless quill and gently wipe away the black in warm running water. I dry it just as carefully, then lay it to rest back in its case. I set the case into a dark drawer and close it quietly. Then I tighten the lid onto the small vial of ink and keep that on my desk, near the window so I can watch the sunlight be consumed by the ink. I finally close my eyes, the sight of black frustrating me.
| I happened to stumble across this at the bottom of the first page of prose, and I'm glad I did: I stumbled upon an imagery-filled insight about something so small and generally boring. I did have a few qualms with it, but I will explain those in a minute.|
Never did I believe that a human and a quill could have such an intimate relationship, and yet you are able to pair them magnificiently. I'll give my two cents about each paragraph - it'll be a bit more organized that way!
Paragraph #1: The imagery in the first paragraph is absolutely stunning. The only type of critique I could offer is to maybe change some of the common words ('thing' is a pet peeve word for me). Also, did you notice that you use the same words over and over? "The quill" this and "The quill" that. You might want to change that up. Variety is good! (Forgive me if I sounded too condescending there... )
Paragraph #2: I beg of you, please take out the comma on the first sentence! You don't need it, and it ruins the best line of this piece! In this line, you show the difficult relationship between the quill and yourself - saying that it is impossible for you and the quill to have the same thoughts. You give it a sense of feeling - as if it is a living being. Very nice touch.
Also in this paragraph are the questions that every aspiring writer/artist/person who uses some sort of writing utensil to do their duties asks: why is it that I am unable to find the perfect word/stroke/etc. The relationship between you and the quill is strained - you are afraid that you will hurt it, and it is (although it does not show it) afraid that it will make a mistake. The quill puts up a "overpowering" facade, and it does all it can do to make sure that you do not screw up. This ends up creating a mess of a problem - one that is extremely difficult to overcome.
Paragraph #3: I am not entirely sure if I like this ending. When I was reading, I hoped that the quill would finally realize that the artist/writer/you know the drill, is capable of creating something that is beautiful. Instead, you do the opposite: you continue the relationship which I consider to be equivalent to writer's block. Everything is there ("...what begins as a wondrous illusion caressing nerve endings in my brain..."), but yet you are never able to finish it ("I tend to never finish what the quill and I begin..."). It's really sad to start a work, and never finish it. It could have been a thrilling tale, but sometimes you realize that the passion that you started with simply is not there anymore, and you become frustrated and you quit. Imagine some of some of the works that could be around if only the artist would have completed it!
Summary: You requested thoughts, so I will say that I thought that this piece was going to turn out differently than it did. I thought that this story would have a happy ending, but sadly, it was the complete opposite.
Might I ask that you write a piece with a different ending - a happy one? I would be thrilled to read it!
Have a good day,
|| Posted on 2008-05-09 00:00:00 | by Cirruculum | [ Reply to This ] |