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I stop, I start


I’m a strange creature. I write in the middle of the night. I stop, and breathe. I return after months, changed and yet the same.

I have been thinking about what I want this blog to be now. Blueloft has often been like my life’s pulse in some ways, a place where I lay out the quick and the dirty without thinking of consequences.

But….I am older now.

I like to think I am wiser.

But more importantly, I am different…

I am learning (with some success I might hope) how not to see my own rose-tinted life through a cracked looking glass at all times.

Us creative types are a little weird, you see. We are often self-absorbed and troubled, guarded and obtuse. We revel in self-importance and are likely to spin webs of words around our own lives.

I have been guilty of all of this. I do not want to stop entirely, but I am rethinking my purpose as a writer. Is it to record semi-autobiographical, cryptic truths on the inter webs? Or…can I use my power for good in this world, in some way? I like to think the latter, although ‘good’ is impossible to define of course.

And that is why I have taken a step back. I am letting my thoughts ferment, as experience builds me. I am learning to be a better version of myself, on my own terms.

You may not want to know this. I don’t know whose reading anymore, if anyone is. I know I have subscribers, but that often means nothing anymore, in this age of fast and bite-sized media.

While I go away and brood some more however, I wrote you another half-poem in my signature style today:

It is easier to see humans
Affected by maladies
That run from limb-to-limb
Tearing through the torso
Twisting along the spine

It is easier still to feel the stirrings of pity
In localized pools inside us
And even to absorb hatred, disgust, anger
At that unfairness held outside us

It isn’t as easy though, to see the snakes
That slither around inside us
Gripping fragments of life
And squeezing them bone-dry
Being told they’re just figments
Of our broken-down adulthood imagination.

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