Entitled and Bitter Monologues of Drab Attire

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Stream of consciousness writing (for lack of a favoured term)has become an indispensable part of my so called “creative process”. Engrained into the way I think it subtly allows for more appropriated works and fluid expression. Leading from one thing to the next, beginning and ending intertwined it all becomes an utter mess.

Before I began doing it myself I wondered why a creator would bother to spew nonsense like this. My thoughts were that it would just confuse and dilute intent, which really is quite a reasonable idea. In effect though it is the opposite because I will often release to immerse myself in a inventive mindset to dial in on what message I want to tell and what topic shall be covered.

EXAMPLE#1 [LOST ENTITIES OF FAITH]
Bruised the wonderful image adored, lost between others men delude and relax to many objects performed daily taxes routines animals taken lost made glorious revolution between illiterate lines sheep flocks and birds herd never before imagined how it was the child cried. Adored my many but lust felt none. Nobody knew daughters father’s and life taken for a ride along the water. Water black cold heartless mater of fact deliberate person, described as another’s worship. Don’t elude I understand people of many need not be scared. I am a lonely witch beaten by the ones own minds, need to find something of another. Forever looking towards obvious flutes. Never attend just leave death.

If meaning to create a finished piece constructed with this technique then I find that it becomes oddly poetic. While I myself am not particularly fond of standard poetry these start/stop mechanics in play truly tug at my mind. Sometimes after writing I find completely different meaning in a set of text then what was originally intended by myself.

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EXAMPLE#2 [DISTURBED INTRUSIONS]
Beloved by many the river was, milky and of dark grey it wound. Alone in the mountain she moved within. Met two by two each pondered the idea of death. Flight was near allowed by none, taboo little ones strode across the path. Miniature fountains for fondness’ fruit bore. Belittled sculptures of last lives known by none, sadness and mediocrity preceded the masses. Not caused by lacking institutions for grievous wounds upon fruit lost. Healers and creatures know not of alliteration but simply of existence. From the milky river arose a black musty mist and enveloped the man alone. Insignificant his passing was nothing adjourned.

The idea that I can get lost within my own writing is fascinating and really draws my passion. Normally once I create something it is over and I move on, I understand it and there is no reason to move on… But with this I will sometimes catch myself digesting a page of my own formation for hours. Whereabouts my thought falls can leave me with a lack of conclusion and it truly is fascinating. Even my formal writing can be maniacal in nature due to its sheer uncertainty.

Throughout all the nonsensical rambling, all I mean to say is attempt retention. Stream of consciousness writing is a brilliant way to further your technique and cradle your experimental imagination. Beware of lacking horizons, yours truly

Noah

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