undeniably, there are ways in, and much more than one, for that reason. you see, the art of writing was never the exact same for myself as it may be for many tried and tested others. what do I mean? not entirely simple to say, however what I can admit is this: that I feel utterly pulled into a place of continual and never-ceasing foreplay when it comes to the working of sudden words. sudden because, yes, they do tend to be ultimately sprinting. as though they were made to somehow, anyhow, land themselves neatly or otherwise atop of my page, laptop, notepad, whichever really. I guess I don’t quite ‘write’ but… rather… scribble at relative will till it makes sense in, oft than not, only ever my own head. that’ll do too, has to have done all along. see, I cannot deny the spray of words that endlessly caress my mind. I can no longer fail at seeing and, what’s more, seizing this thing in me – right at the very peculiar feeling core – for what it is – an absolute gift. and trust in me, this gift is beyond deserved, for what my mind has had to travail on through whilst all awhile gathering and keeping and capturing this deep, deep belief inside the gut of my injured and bullied mental being which always, always guaranteed and whispered at me that words were unbelievably my thing. they are because, honestly said, everything is the foundation built beneath an about-to-be poem, begging to happen. no pressure anymore. no pressure ever really when it came to the artistic parts of me. all there, all good and forever intact and willing to fail. whatever in the name of Christ that word might even begin to mean in its own right. or wrong, whichever really. I am here to live good, learn well, and absolutely love like only one person who crawled back from the most unthinkable brink possibly can do. finally, amazingly enough, in the oddest admission of all on my part, it isn’t entirely about words either. it’s attempting to paint and create something much bigger than me, and inside of not just my mind but every single mind I meet on any given day. sounds odd? well that’ll have to be just because it is, has always felt a little or a whole lot odd. also a tad loose-ended in description to be fair there. I’m tired. blame the pace of one mind, why not. as though I’m linked to all of the words which beg to be professionally connected, only another part of me doesn’t really want to play ball in agreeing to give my real best bits away. yet… I do indeed profess… to being a perfectly fucked up individual 😉