The start of things to come would be the first thing that I would say if anyone would ask me why I am doing this. Sounds condescending and off putting but really it's the best way to describe the why rather than the how in the moment. That being stated and hopefully understood let me get to the heart of things, or for the bulk of people surfing the internet for work distractions let me try to get to the heart of it, get lazy and then just settle for the spleen or appendix.
So now that I have set a pace we are off and running as some would say. In the last two years I have been at battle with my own intentions and my purpose never really understanding either sides argument but it was a good fight so I watched letting time slip away. I have decided that I want in some way to be a writer and it was this idea that my intentions and purpose fought so repetitively about. The problem as i have viewed it is that I can't right now be a writer as I think one should be. A writer in my mind is a being comprised and enfolded in the literary world every waking and most sleeping moments in their lives. They jump syntax, weave words, engross themselves in verbiage and die a little each time they finish a work. Their lives are words, their food is words, even the air that they breath is words dancing like leaves across a windy Autumn sky. They drown their whole being in alphabet soup occasionally blowing bubbles that when viewed from a correct height strike fear, love, anger, or sadness upon the minds and hearts of those willing to read the continuing jumble. This idea of a writer fills me with longing because I know honestly with all the stuff in my life I am unable to drown myself in anything but life.
As a needed clarification when referring to life I understand it to be the moments when you are hastily trying to get your pants back up due to either the impending approach of a scoured lover, or a monster has entered the bathroom and is checking stalls one by one because some how it has locked on to your blood and finds it yummy. Either way you are happy to be done with putting up your pants, but are dumbfounded at the likely hood of such an event happening right now. Congratulations you are living life, now run fool run.
In an effort o remedy the conflict building in my brain i have come here to an open blog to maybe by chance get some of the details down on a paper of sorts. I feel that even though my life is not giving me the chance to write as I see writers doing, it does not mean I am to lock away the madness of my brain so that normal can take hold. As stated above this is the start of things to come the heralded trumpet blow of the start of an Apocalypse of being just normal in a world that is crazy enough to allow those that try to be super.
Please bear with me in understanding as I am new and cold and there may or may not be wolves after me. I will try as I can to listen to the voices in my head and filter through the items that fall out. Most if not all of them will end up here and I hope if for anything just a chance to be a writer in a smallish way.
In closing I leave you with a though and a question. The world is a big place made up of little places made up or even smaller things in tiny places. We as man are a part of the big but in a small room. Being so does that mean we are ourselves to be small to keep the system in order, or do we stand taller and speak louder to be big in our own daily small places?