I have the primitive inklings of a story in its formative moments within my consciousness, but an inexplicable, unidentifiable barrier retires my will to meandering aimlessly in the universe of pre-creation.
Who am I writing for?
After having manipulated thoughts of mine into presentable, palatable packages for the general audience, it seems my hand has become too practiced to speaking into the desires of others and not urging my own desires into existence. What once was art became pandering to the will of the people instead of molding it. The excitement of new thoughts gradually became replaced by the self-serving gratification of agreement, the honeyed poison that is assent. And so the descent into languor and loss of voice begins. I no longer know what to expect when my thoughts are laid bare; it seems as if my work waxes and wanes – I love to hear myself talk but hate to explain.
I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience, but perhaps this time I may gain the experience of reality.