I should not keep on, I’ll just creep on, creepin’ on.
The writer’s burden, at the point I conceive now, is brutal.
Unrelentless. We were ferociously warned, we will be. Look at the others, the gurus, the saints: Kerouac, an alcohol fuelled French vagabond , Hemingway and his opiated landscape of ol’ Paris, Stephen King’s bloodied nostril paperback attacks, half a hand full a’ white smack.
Of course it’s hard to write. To beat your hearts strings slapity slap smack on, not even paper no more but blank old mobile screens where just maybe someone with a heartbeat will see.
I know who I really am, and I’m choosing to not be like them.
Sometimes picking the wild daisies and babies breath and prickly pink roses that die within a day keep me slightly more sane. Because no one can save me but me. So that time where I breathe, and I know deep down its not just ego but it sorta kinda is. It’s good. It’s now and I’m feeling.
Even if it’s only you. You’re reading me, you’re getting this and ripples bounce beyond dimensions we don’t see.