Split me down the middle, two that I am. Then let each of those parts form their own characters too, and split further still, potentially. For I cannot justify fitting all this inside one person, knowing not who writes this, with all certainty. I can read Bukowski, he can leave his mark on me even, he can open up my sexual and dirty mind, without doubt, but it will be a small impact on the overall scale of who I am as a writer. I shift between characters, from light to dark, from music to poetry and to greater arenas of words, from hope to feelings of uselessness. I can write words and send them out to the whole world knowing that they will only meet the eyes of a handful of folks, as the larger numbers await my earthly departure, but I can write nevertheless and that is the spirit with which to continue and the sole reason to do anything, because regardless of the size of the audience it matters, it is nature, it is as necessary as breathing or keeping hydrated.
Which side fills up the blog, which side fills the diaries? Are they one and the same? Do the words spill out and truly have no destination other than the ether, the stars and beyond? Should I stop trying to control what clearly would be the hardest of all roles? It is so easy to question what we do not understand, but to truly trust our surroundings and our instincts at times would probably make more sense. To let time and space and love do what they are designed to do. To repeat oneself, be it on purpose or simply because you think those thoughts, with impact, over and again, and you therefore communicate such a mindset.
Fall in love, over and over, with fear and passion, and endless enthusiasm. Life is love, love is life. If you will dive into a pool of anything in this time on earth, dive in good. Go deep, swim around, see what is in there and believe it could contain anything, no matter how small or large the space may be. The possibilities of everything are endless. Uselessly and gloriously endless.
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