Beauty + Meaning

I feel as though I've lost all relevance. These anecdotes I write are barely significant to me, and rarely mean much to anyone else. I don't say this to say I mean nothing or even that my writing is empty. I say this knowing what it means to tap into the reservoir of my soul by way of writing and in doing that to find some poignancy. I don't do that anymore. I'm not sure when the last time was.

The written word is one of the things I'm most interested in. However, I'm not one of those appeased simply with words irregardless of their denotation. As far as I can tell, the writer's task is two-fold: aesthetic and intrinsic. The intrinsic attributes value and the aesthetic allows for effective communication.

An architect will not remain of high-esteem if he builds pretty buildings that collapse. He'll only be remembered for his folly. If a man builds his family a home that never falls, but is basically ugly, no one besides his family will remember anything but that it was an ugly house. The family will like it because it was built with his blood and determination. They'll appreciate him for meaning well and for being a good father and husband. He won't be reknowned as a great architect. That's fine, of course. Who else really matters?

But the thing of it is, I'm a writer. It's a gift I've been given that as of right now I don't know what to do with it. "How do I work this thing?" I used to know. It seems it should be easier to pick up again than riding a bike. I've never really abandoned the craft, but apparently I've unlearned it. I want to relearn it. I want to learn how to marry beauty with meaning.

I want it to flow as naturally as it once did. I want to be able to be less self-conscious when I write. I don't care how much of it is genius or even how much of it is original, I just desire for it to be pure. Something sincere, you know?