To be honest, I think the possible ‘masterpiece’ will forever be opened to total interpretation- and yes, I do get the feeling that for a few people I may have actually already created my best pieces of writing; but I cannot ever get to be the one who judges such a thing. Wish I could, but I genuinely don’t ever want to become that sort of a writer. I want to do it like no-one else before; like a new kind of authentic and decidedly enflamed and descriptive both rhythmic storytelling. I am stepping as far away from the word ‘poet’, or even ‘poetry’ when it comes to what I do with my time. It feels too fucking embarrassingly constraining over my overall endeavour with this thing. This is me- warts and all, like it or loathe it, I truly both do and do not care too much. It will always be some sort of a crazy conundrum but I certainly do not feel I share any such likeness to any other writer out there. And, also, it appears to be that they are the last people who I ever really want to be conversing with on any entertaining level. No worse time that when a fellow writer asks you, “hey, what kind of writing do you do?” That is such a fucking open-ended and rather tried and tested question. Why not ask me what kind of writing do I try NOT to do? The answer would be Most. Most of the fucking stuff. I try not to do most of the stuff out there already, as it’s plainly been done and therefore regurgitated to death. But, seemingly, many readers the world over like death in their words, so… fair’s fair. What do I want to create that might well have never been created before. That is the burning question above all else. It’s all up in the air for me and in a ridiculously comfortable way. The OCD gave me my ability with words, however different some people see that standard for themselves; it crushed me and took my poor mind to places where NO person in the world should be forced, especially unwittingly, to go. And now I get to finally live with a so-called gift right alongside me, a gift that some feel I hardly worked for in the first place. Absolute toss- my work-hard attitude was done over the course of twenty-years-plus, wherein I battled like literally crazy not to lose my mind entirely outright. I battled with a dream engrained so down deep inside of the pit of my being, that even though that same mind was inhumanely pummeled, it still somehow, fuck knows how?? managed to find a way back to the surface. So, did my writing save me? By a million times, it did indeed. And will keep on doing so whenever it feels necessary. I made a million deals with myself over the course of those aforementioned pummeling years that it would not just one single day disappear and crawl back from under the rock which it came in the first place. The writing, I mean. Why do I know this? Simply because it is a part of me as much as my day-to-day conversations with people are, just far more high-brow and rhythmically tilted to turn. I mean, I get how odd it might appear to many right now, but that is just on the page, trust me on that score. It feels so excellently right for me to be following through with it till the end, whatever that even means in this particular case, and what better endeavour to work your way through life with than the very exact same one which truly did most definitely save you from falling so far under the radar of the normal functioning human brain that I could so very easily have been looking at another twenty-plus years of inhumane existence in terms of the life I get to lead. It is most definitely pay-back time. This is not an erratic post by any stretch. Sure there is frustration but, generally, it is a post of pure and raw fucking honesty, and what writer worth their salt wouldn’t feel a serious need to write it down, get it off their chest, and to share some of it going forward for those who do care? Honest with you, there are perhaps not too many creative heads as deeply embedded in their craft as I am, not in this country anyhow, yet I like that I can also take it or leave it whenever suits. It’s the only kind of nuts I am willing to partake in anymore. I’ll always have OCD, and that feels like a good thing to accept, finally. But to my advantage now, and I don’t even regret any of the past. Although, given a choice to get to have that missing time all over again, free-minded only minus my writing at the end of anything this time? I’d definitely, definitely… DEFINITELY drop the writing. In a heartbeat. No argument there. My award should be for surviving my particular level of OCD, not for literary shite. That’s just a hilarious thing that will most probably happen with time and, what’s more, to one of the most unsuspected and unacademic of people. Except for English- that exam was oddly refreshing. Except for the poetry part, that’s just a bit of a joke by all accounts, to be fair 🙂 🙂