How do we learn to live with ourselves? How do we
learn how to stop trying to be someone else? How
much of who we are is invested in what we do?
Finding strength and finding voice are not easy
things to do. I am trying and searching,
but I am so afraid that if I finally find
and speak, I will discover I have nothing to
say. Then, in panic and bitter agony, I fall
silent and still. Depression is there, waiting,
with open arms. But I don't want to go there.
But I don't want to be here either,
accompanied by so much doubt and abject
uncertainty. Am I a fraud? Am I trying
too hard? Where am I on the page?
I want to weave a story like a
tangled ball of yarn. something
with many fibers all twisted together
and wound tightly
braided strand of woolen complexity.
I don't want to make
some fancy pair of socks,
or a cliched sweater that no one will ever wear
and will always lie
and say that they do.
I want to create a
story that will be
wondrous. I want there
to be tangles and knots
that don't seem to
make any sense on
the first time through,
and maybe not even the third.
But it will make meaning to at least one person
at some point.
I will make a story that is more than just another kind
It will be hard and long and
They are in the process of cutting down one of the trees on
Somehow, I feel a lot like that tree: just cut
and left wondering
what just happened to me, and
was it something
just one more thing that
Imagined into a
Halfway existence that, for some unknown reason, still torments me.
I am so genuinely small. I feel like a mouse that has been
asked to cross an eight lane highway, but I haven't been
given a real reason to do it, and none of the speeding
cars know or care that I am down here, shaking,
cowering in fear between lanes, buffeted by the wind.
I find myself terrified of nothing and stricken helpless
by the smallest of uncertainties. Sometimes I can't even
bear my own company, but I can't escape myself. I am
stuck here, screaming without sound at phantoms I
can neither see nor describe. I can rationalize it all
away - compare the ease of my life to the challenges
others face, remind myself that I am not alone,
Sometimes it seems so amazing to me that any of us human beings ever manage to find
a place in or our way through this world. Most days I wake up and have to fight my own
emotional terror and defeatism just to make it to the night and the relief of dreams.
The world and so much of what it holds scares me in a deep way that I
can't describe or explain or reason away. I find myself considering uncertainties
and my mind shuts down in paralyzing fear. No one sees it. Almost no one
knows. The most frightening part is the fact that I know it makes no sense
at all. I know how irrational phobias are. I don't know why I fear
people, the future,
Where do our nightmares come from? Where do
they go in the daylight? Do dreams slumber? Do
terrors sleep? Our imaginations leap into
overdrive when the sun goes down and our
eyes flutter reluctantly closed. Our minds
cleverly blur the lines of reality and make us
wonder, doubt, and question. The real and the
impossible merge to a symphony of confusion,
and all the while, we slumber. Are the hands
that fashion our fancies our own? Do we
mold our own monsters? Are we the only
architects of our private nighttime hells? Or
is there more of the hand of chance in our
dreams? Deus ex machina? Perhaps we do live
in a world constructed by
Hear the voices in the fallen leaves?
The embrace of chilled air - can you feel it?
Stare across the field, into the haze of the
growing fog of night, the diffused glow -
soft and orange - of the street lamps; you
just might see a dream.
Does it live only in your mind?
Will whispering it to the stars
make it real?
Can you save it in pixels or ink or sound?
Can a memory breathe?
Do fallen leaves despise the feet
that trample them?
Walk the paths of night, wander in your mind and by you
Can I tryst myself?
Can I trust you? these pages...
These pages keep my secrets -
the secrets I have to tell, but cannot speak.
I have to trust my pen to speak for me, and
the eyes of some Reader to listen.
Is it so hard to imagine?
So difficult to understand?
Some things have to come to the outside. Some things
have to be known. Some things have to be shared
with strangers - but in such a way that the truth is
discoverable, not apparent.
I do not always trust myself.
Chances are good I will not always
But if you
Pen to paper,
to paper, to paper, to
write. How do we know,
how do we reason, fathom the
depths of the infinite? Discovery
of time, place, knowledge, happenstance,
fate. How do we feel, how do we yearn, how
do we dream? Paper meets pen, meets mind,
meets soul. Unadulterated. Honest. Innocent. The
unknown faced without fear, because nothing goes ahead
of it. Pen to paper, paper, paper. Hand to pen, to paper. Press.
Stroke. Caress. Form the formless, create in the void, fill silence.
Blood and ink, blood and water. Pen in hand, pen to paper, to paper, to
paper, to eyes. Minds touch, hearts speak - all in silence, holy silence. T
My sicknesse chiefly in conceit doth lye,
What I imagine, that's my malady.
Strange Chymeras are in my phantasie,
And things that never were, nor shal I see.
~ Anne Bradstreet
Not dead, just... not really living either.
Writing doldrums baaaaaad all up in here - plenty of desire but no "get-up-and-go" or "sit-down-and-write." So I need a kick in the pants, in one form or another.
Encouragement's great, but as thin-skinned as I can be, I'm pretty sure I need some criticism. I'm asking around amongst some of my friends and family who'd be willing readers, or even better, willing to tap someone I don't know (and who doesn't know me) to read something and give some honest, bald-faced feedback. In some ways I think I respond better to a challenge or someone telling me I can't do something than just vanilla encouragement or vague praise. I suppose I'm rather
You are amazing. You are a fantastic writer. I like really, really, really much your texts. I can feel the feelings and then I get sad. Your texts make me thinking too and reflect about myself. Thank you very much for sharing. I wish you a very long a full life.
Thank you very much. Making someone feel something is always one of the goals (if not the goal) of writing. I appreciate you taking the time to read some of what I've written. All the best to you as well, mate.