Robbed, by the flesh, of channeling it-
Ere I leave, I hope to, just once, obtain it.
Am I alone? Do you feel it?
To feel is to create is to live-
Emptiness is inactivity.
Excuse me as I attempt to blog of that of which I do not know nor understand.
There is a strange, deep-buried feeling within me that, it seems, my intelligence and experience allow me only to sense but not to analyze nor act upon. There's some sort of drive- some sort of power, likely present in every human, but buried deep under false beliefs, misled motives, and the dust that time allows to accumulate on the soul- that has instilled within me the desire to create something, something- that will make a difference. Some sort of Woodstock (but with real meaning), or 1984, or Fahrenheit 451, or The Bell Jar, or The Catcher in the Rye. Something that affects how we view people on a base level and channels the dark, beautiful feeling that I feel but cannot express and manifests it, if only one of its aspects.
I want to write.
But my prose- what used to be my strong point- has deteriorated greatly, and my poetry does little.