There is definitely something insatiably suggestive happening. I dunno… it’s really funny and odd, that one minute I think I’m DONE-done, then the next I’m knee-deep in a poem-piece and could not be happier in myself. Hmm… I never take the small amount of time even to try and figure out these things, as in why I do or can write the way that I write. Yes, it’s full-steam ahead. But, it is also… concentrated in the most outlandish fashion. I reckon anyhow. Seeing as there’s no real visual when I write, that simply means that while words do hold their obvious meaning, they don’t paint any imaginative visual inside of my mind, depending on the use of a stronger word and what have you, I don’t know exactly where I go with it. In other words – and it is ALWAYS other words! – something strange and outside of my natural grasp regards its understanding is definitely happening. Perhaps on a different frequency, brain-wise. If I could, say, imagine colour and images like most people who read and have vivid memories seem to be able to do, then I really dunno how mundane my writing would have been in the first place. I don’t have a clue what someone might go about calling me. And I cannot for the life of me imagine what most of them think of my heady pursuit. Yet, still, the questions I get asked are so damn one-dimensional and boring. Like, “how come your parents were so supportive of you with this thing?” “Will you keep trying til you make it?” and “Baby-steps, I guess it takes?” Baby-steps! I’ve done more with my craft than these people will ever achieve – except of course for the nine-to-five mundanity of a job that seriously wants to make them push a gun to the tower of their temple. And, really, that is no kind of achievement at all, to be perfectly fair. Look after your own, I say. And I say it fucking loud.

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