What do you do when you dream a scene, a picture so clear it feels like you're there? You write. You become absorbed in a world of your own creation. If you're very very lucky, you have patient friends, and encouraging spouses. You beg for proof reads and the indulgence of those who love you the most. In the end, you revise revise revise until you must stop yourself from stripping the moment of truth from your message. I've kept a journal since I could write. Now leary of who may happen upon my exposed and very odd inner self, I instead find myself writing in a sort of code. I hint at what's behind my words, like bread crumbs, it will lead me back again.
I beg the indulgence of the wide web with its outlets of creation, and an easier means of sharing unfinished works, where I will mercilessly send any willing reader and save a few trees along the way. God bless the written word, it has started wars (but don't bless it for that), won hearts, and bound untouchables to law - it's a medium that takes new turn on a road of cyber sets. How many untold places will it reach? What is the ultimate question? The answer is 42.
Unassuming, naively hopeful, mildly synical, faithfully optimistic, I have known love, I have known love's keen losses, and now I strive for a certain balance and peace that comes from years of taking the long road home. Home ...I dream of one day.
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