Most people who are sensitive to the world around them are receptive to fierce and consuming urges. Because what people desire most, the soul is yearning for impatiently and quietly in unchanging fervour. Which is why no action I take holds me like writing. Anything I get myself into feels like an aside to it, an experimentation of sorts to inform ‘the truth’ of writing.
When I attend to the words, I do so diligently, romantically and always in utter fear of what they can do to me. Writing is the bedrock in my life, the passion in my world, the cement making up my foundation. Everyone needs solid ground to stand on. Atop of mine is the love of my life, my rock, mon coeur, my all.
Her dreams are filled with passions, yet mine are relegated to adventures with strangely common or oddly foreign guest stars, brimming with all sorts of veritable piffle, drivel and bunk. I never record any of it; it’s better to forget in silence rather than decipher in noise what may not even be.