Something can be said for how smooth the keyboard on these modern gadgets make typing.

Something can also be said for how technology has made dispersion of expression to be so available. Blogs forums, websites… Just imagine if only 10% of the worlds population wrote something everyday on a site such as WordPress. It  would indeed be impressive.

I started this site to take my mind off of something called love and it has not worked. What has worked is that I have discovered love is a pretty useless endeavor. Much like this world, for most it is an illusion at best and a nightmare at worst.

In this past year the pursuit of love has been most painful, yet I continued. Why? What the fuck could possess me to pursue a shadow of what mostly torments my thoughts? Definitely not sex. Definitely not conversation. So what the hell is it?

I’m glad the winter of 2016-17 is mostly over as now I can pursue work. I have a lot of work lined up so to work seven days a week. It will be nice to use that to enrich my empty coffers and to take my mind off the folly of having fallen in love.

Interesting to look back at the thousand of words put into print by these fingers the last few years. A change. An advancement. A retreat. Enrichment. Degradation. Pride. Greed. Sadness. Joy. Foolishness. Intelligence. That is why I really enjoy writing. It feels… real. Concrete. Of substance.

Writing. Work. Drawing. All nice, all needed for me to keep what little sanity is left to lose.

Lets see if a poem can now be created, after stirring up the sludge in my useless brain:

Writing the Words

From airy thoughts come to thin a volume learned. Experience of A to Z grasped; enslaved to print; saved for moment of later, where it can be seen.

What does it matter, to draw upon the wall of a world, an author enslaved. Cave or dwelling, address mute as the ear struggles, the voice yells silent, and eyes full of colored mess.

Author of a moment, where drifts nothing of import. Rotting flesh waiting for demise. For who cares what letters ramble, put together to show such life?

Really though it matters not as those care less than ever while lost in their own lives. Lives where they too, write and ramble. Laughing, crying, feeling their own lives.

“Look at me! I’m real. See? My family, familiar, filled with it is, to be.”

It will be nice when the word flow stops from damned fingers, digits flexed to appease and fold. Repose of darkness enfolding, into a wordless night.