There are too many stipulations to satisfy before I can start sharing the trivia that is my human life. Right now I am writing this more from a sense of guilt and obligation than a sense of sharing. I’ve read about many writers who sit down and write for some appointed hours every day. Of course they don’t always have something to say, but sometimes the stream of words start falling out like siphoned water and it’s nearly impossible to catch them all before they spill on the floor.
I can do that, but it’s self-indulgent to a masturbatory level, a metaphor I will not expand on. There is plenty to share, but I hold my life and thoughts close, and I feel vulnerable beyond courage. I am swaddled in doubt, but driven by vision, or delusion, depending on how it is articulated. Wasted words.
This is a Leonard Cohen of blog posts. Snoring.