How do I find myself back here again? Am I searching for something not yet discovered? Is it an evil demon who forces me to click on endlessly, always beginning anew, always returning here.
I have concerned myself over time to figuring out my readers as much as I figure out myself along this journey. My writing, by habit, is composite, both professionally and personally. I can never write completely about myself or another, it is always a fusion, whether I attach to someone’s voice, words or supposed feelings.
This makes every text I write only partially mine. I can only bring words to life that spring neither from me nor anyone else, but from somewhere deep, hidden and accessible only to a pairing, in concert, expressed as the full range of human emotion and thought.
So I create, to bury old words with new, content with the fact that I have the courage to bring everything to life and leave no one guessing my intentions or deciphering riddles. And when the time comes to switch my attention to a new subject or reader, I adjust and continue along.
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