how will you write?
will you be as blank and wide open as the page before you? or will you cloak your story in poem and character so deep underwater that you come up for air only once in a blue moon to let your reader know that yes, yes – there still is a point to all this madness?
i only know this.
i see people who live in more freedom than me. and i don’t like it.
oh, i like it fine for them, but i don’t like what it says about me.
when did i start to settle?
when did i start writing a story that no one would want to read? when did i start caring so much who read it?
there is an art to life and to living.
and if that is true then it follows that we’re artists.
i’m not interested in bad art. or even mediocre art. i’m interested in liberation artistry.
the kind that sets people free as they look upon it or hear it or read it.
the kind of life and art that casts out demons and wakes up while it’s still dark to pray. life that is art that is more than i live or create now.
i don’t know.
maybe it’s just the coffee, but i’m off to chase the ghosts of childhood today.
i’m off to find out what i was made to do, to write like no one’s reading.