Aug 15th 2009 To write
Time for meditation and introspection. And I continue writing though it leads me into strange uncharted territory.
After all, what does my life mean?
This is what it feels like to write. The call so loud it echoes off the cliffs of my soul.
In splendors of turquoise. Agate. The inner silences, so rare. This writing is ahead of myself. It’s like Hansel and Gretel to myself backwards.
Leave clues.
Back into my shell I crawl like a scorpioncrab.
I cocoon and eat and listen. Try to listen to the outside.
There is another world than the one in my head.
There is a whole universe.
(But yet, being fun minded I cannot resist the urge for play. Word play. Shouldn’t I be out playing with my friends? Not sitting in the depths of philosophy. Or philology. And why we like which better?)
The making of a human artist, the rarest breed among us.
Discover creativity. Recover play.
Which is why there is jazz.
Exist like jazz does.
Total improvisation is freedom.
And freedom is bliss.
This is what it is to write.
(Lee Zebede contributed this.)
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