We are all writers, lovers, philosophers, poets, lusting, needing, thinking, believers, jerks, innocents, devils, psychos, theives, addicts, confused, brilliant, hungry, satiated, stunted, sly, tired, and illuminated in our own ways.
As a writer, I have always wanted to explore these. That is what I think this blog is striving for.
I love when bloggers write discriptions of themselves as lists. I love to read these descriptions and think which numbers apply to me. My mind cannot work like that, though. I suppose I could put numbers throughout this, but it would be a lie, and as a recovering compulsive liar, I try not to do that.
I have a need for physical contact. I tend to turn the bodies of people around me into objects. Not objects to be looked at, but to be touched. I touch everything I see. This puts some people off. It is not a sexual thing, I touch papers, books, coffee cups, tables, and trees the same way I touch people. I just need to touch things. I guess you could say I’m tactile.
For a passifist, the things I write have a greatly violent side. While I’d rather sit in the street quietly as a police officer beats me than fight back, the characters in the work I write have no problem with flesh and blood. Teachers in workshops have always taken note of this, and I don’t know why it is.
I’ve been trying to get published, but all I’ve gotten is good at handling rejection. I’m not good at dishing rejection out, though. I get fooled into agreeing to things I shouldn’t often. Too often. I owe no one anything.
Breakfast is the smallest meal I eat everyday, but I still eat it. Thursdays are the shortest runs I do (4-5 mi.), but I still get up at 5 am. What I want to say is that the little things count. I love the details and the devils they hold. It’s the poet’s soul in this ribcage.
I should be working…