A moment


I’ve been bugged, really been bothered, in an absolutely bothersome way to¬† write today. At any moment, the gates of whatever would have been opened and I would have payed dearly, in ways that I know not of, for not having listened to the call to write,which just goes to prove that the call to write is not really a myth, it is the mantle of Elijah, something that manifests inself into a burden, which in effect leaves me writing. I have been called to write today, is simply how I would paraphrase these lines, but you know that already.

I know my favourite thing to write on earth is about who I have become, like entrails from a deer. Why not a horse? Why entrails? I have absolutely no idea, because, remember again if you will, I have merely been called to write again today, and that is exactly what I am doing; writing as I have always done,in days previous to this one. Similar to it but not quite it. About what then? Well…

On who I have become. Someone out there says we become and never return to what we have evolved from. Someone talks about stages and we know there is no land of return, because a change implicitly leaves us altered and explicitly, yes, truely there are new vocalizations attained, of our temperaments, outlooks on life…I was meant to be talking about myself. I forgot.

I could say I have become(been) blurred(out) like a melted piece of crayon, not chalk. There is the maybe..maybe I should read more , to write more, but this begs the question of what effectiveness there is to having¬† words written. With eyes that have fasted from paper, from the thriftiness of obsessive expression, an apparel like no other, one that demands in ways that leaves you without understanding as to why…

I have written. I know that it was necessary as the spirit beckoned. It is written