Now forced to write, to carry out the tasks necessary for further development, I seem robbed of their meaning. Once I know I must do something, and at times when I feel like just forgetting about it and picking up the pieces down the line, I have to be the schoolmarm, the coach, the rigorous trainer. I must subject my own self to tyranny of soft type just to keep going. Somewhere I know it is for the best, but if I cannot yearn from the heart, only push from the forebrain, then of what value is that which proceeds?
As we revolve into resolvement,
and the tattered lines left behind
burn to catch us,
Our minds lose the penchant
for happier times now blind,
lost forever to us.
Ecstasy of form or sound,
hidden in the ground,
refuse to see us.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
No comments:
Post a Comment