I find myself in new places as I continue my journey to become a artist of words. In my mind I can create new worlds and traverse across the galaxy with a thought. I truly do create something from nothing. One of the ways is I’ve developed a truth to my words. You need to be honest with yourself if you’re to improve in anything. My anything has taken me to places where I thought I would never go. To go into my mind, my soul and to go into my past where I have buried a lot of pain.
Writing isn’t only a representation of what you are, it is also who you are beneath the many layers that you have put up for strangers to see. I find my soul being tested as I struggle to find the words that give my work life. To make a character real, to make them breath. Which raises the question who am I allowing to breath? My work or myself as a person, or something else that is beyond my control.
Its hard to find what works when you’re still learning what you don’t know. However, at my age not all that claim to teach me are teaching me things I needs to know. Maybe with writing there is no true answer to knowledge and words. The world runs on words and since I live on this world, I consider myself a guardian of words. They need to be used, no suppressed by the emotional weak.
I’ve fought hard to get to where I am now and the last thing I want is to go back, both mentally and psychologically. Been there, done that. And it wasn’t a easy battle to conquer, not to say that I completely conquered it, though there isn’t much left to work on to achieve my ultimate goal. The goal is to live, not only in my characters, as a real person in the world.
I want a lot for myself and right now I’m moving towards that goal. With each word I write I make another step towards the precipice of my epoch of my own desires. A transcendence of me from the real to the page. The page is my world, and the yet the real world is my world. My identity is between two places of existence at once and it has the habit of causing some confusion from those around me as they don’t completely understand that fact about me or what I truly am.
At times when I’m writing I’m not me, I’m the character, I don’t exist at all when the images start moving in my mind and my fingers are struggling to write it all down. So, to say that I’m on a journey is true, was it always true? Does the journey end? Do I want it to end? When is enough, enough? A paradox thought that drives me forward to peak past the veil in my mind and soul. The only thing that I’m sure of is that my words are truth. I am my own true of existence on the page.