I’m going to put something down on paper if for no other reason, because it’s starting to build up inside me. Not build up in the eruption of passion kind of way, but in the cholesterol sense, blocking the blood flow to my soul and filling me inadvertently with inability. I learn more and more every day that I only care to be seen in words, and I only care how I seem through them. I can be obnoxious and inconsiderate and loud when it’s inappropriate; I make up my own version of socially acceptable, only to further violate it as my whims dictate. To be short, I’m indelicate; I am not a creature of grace. Yet grace is my aim, as is eloquence, as is poise. I am myself authentically unconcerned, but turn my fingers to the pen, turn the ink to the word and I’m a slave. I’ll take the bloody knuckle discipline to learn the conventions, just so I can break them in, turn the rules into a million shards that ricochet off in every direction, and maybe one ends up lodged sharp, entering smooth and quickly so you don’t even know I’m there until you find me in your heart. Nothing is so drained of inspiration as the clear cut, and nothing so inspired as the mess.
November 20th, 2014