i don't want to be here. I truly don't. I think I have nothing to say...yet I figure the only way I can find out whether or not I have anything to say is to begin saying some things. So I shall begin in this way, the only way I have spoken openly all my life.
I have what might be defined as the soul of a poet. Reclusive. Introverted. Extremely so. I strive toward excellence in my meager scribblings, but always find them to be no more than that--meager scribblings. I can fool myself for a while, but in the end I know it's only a lot of paper. Rubbish. And my soul is written on the pages--glimpses of it, pictures of it, representations and misrepresentations--that which I see or think I see, and most of all that which I cannot see and long to see. It's all here or there or nowhere. That--this--is my speech. For now. Someday I wonder, will I blink out of this cave into the sunlight? I don't want to be here, and for now I really don't want anyone to know I am here. My words, I think, count for nothing. What can they do? They serve only to explain what is, or to fabricate what is not. I know so little...of what can I speak?
No, i don't want to be here.
3 comments:
The existence of your blog puts the lie to its "i don't want to be here" title. ;-) Something in you, methinks, craves the light, and drives you in its direction, despite something else inside that doth protest too much.
G-
Do I know who this is? I think so...and I think you're right. :)
It occurs to me that your title may mean more. Hmm.
I, too, felt that way, once, in a broader sense. Interesting. Hmm.
G-
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