I am never free from this urge to create. I wake up everyday, eager to make something known to the blanks spaces around me. My old notebook with its broken spine is often my first victim, the pages on my laptop the second, the third is the open stretch of air I rarely get a chance to color with my thoughts.
I made a promise to make the worth of my word valuable again. This is my pilgrimage back from obscurity. I thought that if I wrote a few sentences down, the magic would reappear. The magic hasn’t quite returned to me, though it always lingers in memory. These new words are very different to the ones I remember. They aren’t as heavy as the words that I colored into my older portraits. I have hope in these new words, they are whispers of a passion resurfacing. They haven’t learned to find there bodies yet, they lose themselves in the air around too easily, they will grow into there wings, again I will paint pictures I can share with you.
I lost myself in every “what if” I conjured up. Each one made it easy for me not to write that day, made it easy for me to be quiet, to refrain from singing my crooked song of spoken words. I cant allow myself those excuses any more.I am not the young man I was back then, this is more than enough reason to make a riot of the quiet months, find my voice again on this stream of consciousness. There is always a story tell.