I’ve written a lot of bullshit for as long as I can remember, beginning at maybe 11 years young. After extensive and long-winded bouts of creative inspiration and expression, I’ve concluded that my woes are mundane and my betrayals ordinary. In light of the great big world I inhabit, my psychoses are micro specks in the universe. This is a good thing.
Whenever I’m feeling fussy and petulant, I’m reminded that I hail from a line of poets, novelists and journalists who sacrificed their livelihood for their creative freedom in a time and place I’ll never know. My fondness for words must be rooted somewhere in those legacies, in that spirit.
It’s okay, I think, to be the complicated person I’ve always known myself to be. It’s through the cathartic and transcendent act of writing that I come to terms with forgiving myself on many levels, and I end up in a place of acknowledgment, understanding and love. Writing has been a salve for my hypersensitivity to a cacophonous and confusing world and for this, I’m grateful. Not for nothing, I’m a perpetually despairing cynical humanist otherwise.
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself—
Yea, all which it inherit—shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vexed.
Bear with my weakness. My old brain is troubled.
Act 4, Scene 1 of The Tempest
I’m around in other secret gardens. Connect with me: