So writing… how about that? What’s the point?
I wonder about that, judging what I write against the sheer volume of all that has been written already and wonder "do I have anything to add to that?" The answer is "yes I do" which is a little egotistic, but when you get down to it if you do not believe in yourself who is going to? I have been down that road looking for some one else to believe in me, and using that as my reason… which was dumb. I conclude that if you can not believe in yourself, then others will not be able to really believe in you either. There is nothing to hang on to.
So there is that in my works.
The trouble is that I still want to tell a different story, the story that comes before that belief in the self… I remember staring out through wild feral eyes at this world (which is not a lot different now) with a burning hatred… a soul of destruction… and the FEAR. Fear is like fire and burns with an intensity that leaves little behind but ashes… fear is a living cremation.
Poetry is a good form for writing that because it is very hard to describe fire and fear in a way that makes sense to those who may not have shared the experience in the same way. Most people learn the art of not being fearful, or more correctly full of fear… some how they managed to open a value and let it out. I wonder what might be different had I learned that. Would I be me? If not, who would I be?
So there is that in my works too.
Two years on...greetings from B.C.
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I am slow. Very, very slow. It can take me a long time to start to feel
settled in a place, so it should be no surprise that two years after moving
back to...
10 years ago
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