All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know.
Formerly: New Zenith To Hell…(all started with arc as writer here from the trials of Rising Stars to Preferred Author to WDC Quills Best Poetry Collection to the falling action I feel now that settles in a white case.)|
Got to hustle to preserve the best of me before fully fading on that virtual horizon glowing more brilliant with each passing day to permanent nuclear winter.
if people don’t get it, I don’t need to explain it.
We kill all that’s beautiful before we question it’s purpose. So many people find it easier to think in the black and the white. God forbid you get lost straying in the gray.
"Whoever fights monsters should see to it…he does not become a monster.”
I’ve been to the abyss and back. Not so bad.
The loneliest happy person you'd ever meet, when not the saddest person who needs to be alone.
In an ever-changing world, we need to handle topics at the ready. If you roll over and give in to the narrative without lending a voice of your own, you might as well hand over your civil liberties. We have voices that should connect to true conscience and spirit for honest and open discourse. Why feel so redacted?
Unify on issues and put drama aside. Open minds require complete objectivity. If none need apply, question the unbendable sources for answer. If you knee-jerk react to every issue lurking out there that clutches your neck, you fall victim to your own ignorance born from a life of apathy (no doubt) in pathetic cries of injustice.
Just writing what I feel without the narrative-altering mind f---ing with my head.
In your house, I long to be
Room by room, patiently
I'll wait for you there, like a stone
I'll wait for you there, alone
"It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe indefinitely."
"You are all better than you think you are, you are just designed not to believe it when you hear it from yourself."
"...lasting art is never anything more than a mathematical expression of the relations that exist between the internal and the external, the self [le moi] and the world." -Jean Metzinger
I'm in love with carefully chosen words, arranged just so, audible, edible, to inhale. I attempt to post new poems and epiphanies daily with some links to what inspires.
I am legally blind with a rare, genetic form of glaucoma. I'm described as "end stage" after two successful surgeries, still subject to further vision loss. Cataracts complicating matters. Writing Can get strenuous but seldom deters what yearns to emerge, despite a documented history of depression and recently diagnosed ADHD and undefinable social disorders and/or PTSD.
My recent poetry:
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on...
Making sense of life is maddening. Why do I need to know, when truth may not actually exist? Learning to accept would be a better pursuit? Flailing about in my own mediocrity, hoping to bust out.
I am visible. You can put a face with a name. I would like to see other writers, too. Fiction is what you write, not who you are.
Reinventing myself. I couldn't continue on the path I was on and needed a fresh start. This time around I want to put the focus on writing and the world outside of this community as it affects my life.
I realize now that I have been baring my chest a bit more, as when young. fake me much more boring and unliberated than the real me.
A world arriving as silent as that blossom in your garden that I told you about...
|Hit yourself in the head with a hammer...or something blunt and heavy and hope your left brain stops suppressing the creativity now oozing from the right...
I've had several head wounds throughout my life and have felt I'm on the spectrum (only ADHD and odd social skills to remark to date). Look back at my blog before and after December 4, 2017. I had the biggest, mind-wiping concussion of my life. I think I've improved a bit since then.
I digress. I'm intrigued with how in sports getting hit, like a punch in the mouth, stimulates a player to play better. All of this originated from the thought googled 'is there scientific proof that sense can be knocked into you?' Seems all the head slappers out there are doing you a favor when acting dumb. Thank them for startling pain, get that pink, wobbly thing a little more blood and less serotonin.
I write with no particular direction. Perhaps, I'll spin out of this sand into something wonderful one day. Lord knows the drive comes and goes. Setbacks include illness and family/life malaise.