I continue to try to read more and more to escape the writings that need to be done. As time goes on, the necessity increases as my willingness decreases. It used to be a gift, a joy to pick up the pen and put it to paper. I loved anticipating what fiction (although perceived as absolute fact) was going to come out. Now I look at the words–they are mine–but I don’t want them. They don’t pass whatever criteria I have for being legitimate. So my words are orphans without a home and where they come from (myself) doesn’t want them either. The limbo of lost and seemingly insignificant words flowing freely but unwanted from their creator although the necessity of their origination being vital. Only in connecting the fragments do I understand the stained glass. The beauty in the brokenness. The authenticity.
Floating aimlessly over the page–these words are for whom? What is the point? And what are they supposed to mean? I used to write publicly but I don’t know if I ever will again. It all sounds like shit. God–where do we go from here? I wish I could say that I miss the ‘me’ that used to write but I’m so glad that time has passed. Those words were also necessity with a tone of despair and hopelessness. The end of the pen was my only solace–the ultimate higher power. Now the pen is only the vessel. It’s role has changed as well as the heart that inspires it’s movement. The flow is choppy at best. Fragmented thoughts without the sting on cynicism. Truth, with the only hopelessness being in the ego. Words don’t sound as sexy coming from a healthier place. The darkness seemed to draw such appeal. Now I sit awake with truth and light unable to convey artistically the essence of that reality. And I sit.
Exposed 