Pick up the pen, lose it all. No words. Blank. Write words about how there is no words, look at the style, the mistakes, the change.
Once, I had some dreams that waited, like children in the flower garden, waited until I was like a lost flightist, fully away, and they sprung upon me, laughing the whole time, screaming at first.
Shock. Searching for meaning. There it is. Children. Playing. In the garden. Shock.
The dreams themselves were doorways, they had always been there. But now they were open.
Possibly a chance goodbye,
ever so lost and rare,
May be never having to try,
to put it to tune
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.
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