It pains me to think about all the books I haven't written. There are so many in there. So much waiting to come out. Intricate plots and characters diverse flow through my mind on a daily basis. I love books! I love reading! Hell, I even love writing! So where are the books? All the books I haven't written?
Will they stay in me until they come out? Or will they fade gradually, disintegrate, dismantle, vanish in a crowd of other things called distractions, called living, called demands of daily existence?
New ones seem to appear quite easily. Ideas, at least. Maybe it's all incubating, just waiting for my burst of rigorous self application, dedicated word production.
I can live with that. I can believe that, even. Like a spring being pushed down... when the time is right... release! Book one, two, three.... Soaring up and out into the consciousness. All the thoughts and feelings, concepts and scenarios that reside inside me, along side me, abide my lenient, procrastinating ways.
An artist needs time. An artist flourishes with an overflow of non-commitment, excels at leisure, jerks at pressure, winces at expectations, scoffs at demands. Even from self. Leave me alone. If it's going to come out, it's going to come out.
Who gives a shit about ambition? It's a fucking joke to imagine that you gotta strive for success. Fuck success. What we want, what we need more than anything is authenticity. Is real. More real than ever before - felt, lived, experienced, conceived - and then, at the right time, in the right light, with the right intentions, pure intention - expressed. Like the birth of a new sun. A new universe.
To be false in any way, to be motivated by anything other than divine inspiration is just chewing time. And chewing time is fine, practicing, partaking in things that humans do; no worries.
But the real stuff has got to come from the source. And that is not on tap. That is not accessed through will or demand. That is given to the worthy few who have shed enough skins, who have suffered their share, who have practiced and practiced and practiced their craft until they become conduits. Conduits for a higher purpose. And that purpose is enlightenment. The advancement of human consciousness. A worthy pursuit. A rewarding escapade.
So, what of me and my books, I wonder. What of the hundred millions other meez, all thinking and feeling the same thing. Will we find salvation? Will we finally pen our personal, poignant, powerful tomes, the ones that reside inside us?
It does not really matter. Because if we don't, another will. Then when we stumble upon their works we can smile and sit back in comfort and glee, content with a reflection of our own inner voices that while not a splitting image, is damn close enough. Yeah, we can all relax, you see. Whatever needs to be will be.
Will they stay in me until they come out? Or will they fade gradually, disintegrate, dismantle, vanish in a crowd of other things called distractions, called living, called demands of daily existence?
New ones seem to appear quite easily. Ideas, at least. Maybe it's all incubating, just waiting for my burst of rigorous self application, dedicated word production.
I can live with that. I can believe that, even. Like a spring being pushed down... when the time is right... release! Book one, two, three.... Soaring up and out into the consciousness. All the thoughts and feelings, concepts and scenarios that reside inside me, along side me, abide my lenient, procrastinating ways.
An artist needs time. An artist flourishes with an overflow of non-commitment, excels at leisure, jerks at pressure, winces at expectations, scoffs at demands. Even from self. Leave me alone. If it's going to come out, it's going to come out.
Who gives a shit about ambition? It's a fucking joke to imagine that you gotta strive for success. Fuck success. What we want, what we need more than anything is authenticity. Is real. More real than ever before - felt, lived, experienced, conceived - and then, at the right time, in the right light, with the right intentions, pure intention - expressed. Like the birth of a new sun. A new universe.
To be false in any way, to be motivated by anything other than divine inspiration is just chewing time. And chewing time is fine, practicing, partaking in things that humans do; no worries.
But the real stuff has got to come from the source. And that is not on tap. That is not accessed through will or demand. That is given to the worthy few who have shed enough skins, who have suffered their share, who have practiced and practiced and practiced their craft until they become conduits. Conduits for a higher purpose. And that purpose is enlightenment. The advancement of human consciousness. A worthy pursuit. A rewarding escapade.
So, what of me and my books, I wonder. What of the hundred millions other meez, all thinking and feeling the same thing. Will we find salvation? Will we finally pen our personal, poignant, powerful tomes, the ones that reside inside us?
It does not really matter. Because if we don't, another will. Then when we stumble upon their works we can smile and sit back in comfort and glee, content with a reflection of our own inner voices that while not a splitting image, is damn close enough. Yeah, we can all relax, you see. Whatever needs to be will be.
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