I know that my writing is not mainstream, regardless of it being “good” or “bad”. Thank you for reading it, even if it is rough around the edges and not like the other writing you read, or even prefer.
I know I get fixated on certain topics. My writing is typically more “iterative” than “finished”. Thank you for putting up with the recurring dream when you visit this site.
There are days I hesitate to call myself a writer. I scribble down doggerel mostly in the manner of wordplay. I’m not sure I want to be known as a “writer”. It seems self-inflating and conceited to continue to do so. Perhaps I will stop. Thank you for enduring my conceit.
What I want to do is to stop making sense and become like the whiskey drunk in the back of the wagon, jolting along and forgetting to fall when the wheel hits a large rock and, instead, glides boneless to the road to slumber with a face full of mud and puddle — no broken bones or bruises, wearing only a broad smile as he recalls making love under the cherry blossoms tumbling from the sky. Thank you for putting up with my habit of trying to make sense.
What was your name dancing the summer seed on the jasmine breeze? I caught it for a moment, but then you turned away. Thank you for that breath of mountain sigh, though the sounds were strange and filled me of longing.
I ask to be more fox, and less of thorn. Thank you.