everyday things drag me down. i become buried in the responsibility of everyday.
|photo by caroline shin|
everyday. writing can be everyday. the need to express yourself. To express something that it within, that lies where in the shallows or the very deeps, that restless voice that whispers constantly, almost incessently at your mind's ear.
"what else? what else is there to see, and know about." my mindseye grumbles. i'm hungry. hungry for truth--and i see truth sometimes in people's art and what i read, but still she gurgles and moans, clutching her stomach, "why can i not be filled?" she knows the answer. she relents. she gives in.
no, she can't do it on her own. she cannot swallow the entire world and not choke on the lies and deceit and poseurs that lurk, she cannot handle all the knowledge and insight. experience may be something that she deals with, that someday she will have to choose between safe and sorry. her life has been sorry, but maybe in her new wisdom, she realizes that each must come onto his own path.