I do not write for you, invisible existence. I write for He who knows my name and loves me still. I write to jot and scribble observations of a worldly, spiritual, existentialist nature. I say nature in conjunction, though mean to stand it fully by itself. The logical, visual, visceral, foreign methods of expression sit, nestled in a batch of words that seem more shallow than a drip’s pool; and, I pour into them with every gland and nerve of this body I was given. I dry myself with slow breathing, only to soak again and slosh about when I wake. I feel like a weathered, angry man when my wife wakes me for what I must do before going off to indentured servitude of a much less harsh variety than was prior to our country’s freedom. I do not ramble; I stroll amongst thoughts as would a day-tripper to the forest: with a sense that there must be a time to leave, but having very little care to get there. And, too, I sometimes stop short, before any sort of insight makes its way through the text I’ve laid to dry, but forgot I did not wash them first.
I forget myself as easily as my PIN for everything other than my debit card. You can see I am but a forgetful bit of man, sunken and raised at the same time, with a hairline border to keep me defined.
Every piece of writing seems so much longer and lasting when written than when read. That’s why I don’t go back to read: disappointment in myself for what my self has written and recorded. Funny, I envisioned my life and saw, long ago, a continued emphasis on what it is I loved: dictation and repetition.