Among the things I like to call myself is a writer. Of late this has transformed itself into writing creatively again for the first time in a while–at least seriously and daily. Poetic prose has always been at the forefront of my tools, and when I was presented with hush, it was my go-to.
Here is hush
for you to try. Credit goes to Gregory Weir
for informing me
of its presence. Before reading further, I suggest trying the game and then coming back here–it won’t take long, depending on how long it takes you to write. Spoilers ahead and what not.
Here is where I enter the realm of personal a bit to explain my reaction to this game.
There are periods of time where I will go without dating, often burned and stressed out by the other set of games that comes with that territory. Recently I started again to almost immediately be burned, and found myself writing out my thoughts in metaphors and drawing forth my own experiences with a bit of illusion.
hush has a simple missive: Describe a scene of intimacy in 50 words.
First I started writing down, from memory, a snippet of something I wrote two years ago. Since college I have taken the task of writing down every romantic encounter that ranks as more than fleeting into some set of poetic form, and therefore it came easily. I even have a personal creative writing blog where I set them all with the tag “Letters to That Boy.” When the words in hush started erasing themselves, it spoke volumes to me, someone who has been quite accustomed to having these scenes of intimacy typed into a small white box.
I can write all these scenes of intimacy down, and my habit of not sharing them, except occasionally with the party about whom it was written, relegates them much as hush did, a form of public communication that is really not so public at all–it exists between myself and the game, another form of intimacy in itself. The first thing I typed into that little white box, though, remains a moment of intimacy that cannot be shared, no matter how hard I try.
This is the curse and blessing of memory, of any recorded thought trying to capture some snippet of time. While we can set down the scene, give the details, there are always factors that escape our notice that probably inform the scene in some small fashion. It is often the aim of art to present a particular view, a particular frame when presenting these scenes.
hush is a true form of intimacy, because it purposefully tells you that intimate moment is yours. It cannot belong to the box, it cannot be contained within 50 words. Eventually, typing nets you nothing.
This will not stop me from being a futile dreamer/writer, however. It remains food for thought.
Meanwhile. The second attempt was the more recent intimacy I shared–something entirely new. I have certainly attempted and started to write my thoughts down on that experience, but as is often the case, I like to try many different ways of capturing what the intimacy with a person meant. Typing it in, knowing it was to be erased served as a form of catharsis and relief–this was something new to me, something I could not reclaim. While I could reform much of it into a document and then flesh it out (between theater and writing, my memory of recent things I’ve written stays with me a while), perhaps I won’t. It was. I am now. hush offers no judgment, no metric. hush just acts as a confidante.
The third attempt was a simple repetition: you and I over and over, until even that was gone.