Author: Olavia Kite

I stopped writing poetry. I don’t know why. All these words used to flow into my head, all these images that sounded so well. But not anymore. Perhaps it’s lack of practice. It’s not as if it were something mystical bestowed upon me by some divine entity which has now forsaken me. No, it’s not at all like that. You have to write if you want to write. And it was a good practice, poetry. It was beautiful. I should take it up again. Of course today is neither August 31st nor September the 2nd, but I’m travelling to the past to stop myself from being so stupid. Here’s Olavia from the future telling you, you have time! Use it. Do all the things you want to do. Don’t wait. Write. Draw. Sing. Read. Do. Do. Do.

Collective nouns in English are so poetic, they almost sound unreal. Here’s a list of my favorites:

an ugly of walruses
an escargatoire of snails
a flotilla of swordfish
a rhumba of rattlesnakes
a lamentation of swans
a stubbornness of rhinoceroses
an implausibility of gnus
a blessing of unicorns
a shiver of sharks
a party of rainbow fish
a misbelief of painters

My brain is the source of all my suffering. I hate it. I hate its unreliability. I hate how I never remember where I’ve left my things. I hate how I don’t do stuff in time and when I finally get to whatever it is I had to do I’ve forgotten essential things about it. I have to put away my socks but I delay the chore until only one sock can be found. I hate how I always get distracted.

I hate how my brain wishes so fervently somebody wished I was there. I hate the sensation of sheer loneliness that envelopes it. I hate its yearning for certain comforting words. I hate all the bad decisions it’s taken, starting with “I can do that later” or “this will be easy to find if I put it here.” Everything I put away in a safe place is gone.

So I’ve decided that I’m not becoming a writer after all. Does this happen to everybody? Who perseveres, and why?

I’m not becoming a writer but I’m still writing. What’s the difference? This effortless ranting does not qualify to be read by anyone but me when I’m older. I do like to write, but I don’t think I have the spirit. I’m not even sophisticate enough.

To think that 10 years ago I considered myself an artist! Now I think I’m just… someone with too many hobbies.