At periodic intervals in my journey through life, I stop and step outside of myself and wonder if I really have anything to say. There then ensues a period of silence. It happens enough that I’ve stopped going through the “will I ever write again?” anxiety, but it still perturbs me nonetheless, because I know that every single day of my existence I need to get things out that I normally can’t express. My writing goes through phases: sometimes all I will write about are mundane daily occurrences or thoughts; other times all I will write is abstract poetry.
Writing is a constant struggle to root down to the Source of all things. At some cosmic level, I believe all things to be interconnected. This is the basis on which metaphor, the language of poetry and spiritual introspection and surprise, rests. That ultimately, any random thing can be interrelated to a greater whole, in which it is embraced and liquidated, a drop in the sea.
Postmodernism was an interesting intellectual and cultural exercise in which we recognized the idea of the fragmentation of our identities. But we’re moving beyond that cold shizophrenic paranoia, thank god, and evolving to see that even our very selves be simply shrapnel in the sea of a divinity that defines and repels us all in the same breath.
Once it was black and white, and poor and rich, and women and men. I’m hoping that our culture is quietly evolving beyond such facile reductions of our godhead.
In any case, the moon is almost full here on the lake at this fall time, bringing with it a whole slew of questions and remembrances and sorrows and light. I’m writing here at this very moment because I am alone, and you are alone, and we are together. The most important thing, I think, is that we understand ourselves through each other. I will continue to write, searching to uncover the line that strings our hearts together across the oceans of time and space.