I’ve almost forgotten how to allow my written words to surge from behind some unknown internal weir. Writing, once something I required in the formation of self-definition and well-being, now has become an occasional dirge or some type of social notification. But it is pointless to lament the loss of something one has sacrificed, whether deliberately or by way of necessity. My life is something sometimes beyond the scope of my own creation. I am formulated by forces that are chiseling me into some enmossed hybrid of scales and vascular tissue. The path before me, once a quiescent omega pull sensed only as the horizon, has become more greatly defined, even as it remains unknown. This means, I suppose, that I am simply gaining age, and thus, economy. A self-delimitation that oddly increases power.
This trivial taste of creation whets my will to allow for the vulnerability of writing to overtake me again. There is something of despair here, something of a rugged strength that draws one into a crumbled beauty, a traumatized clarity of vision. It can only inevitably be good for the soul.