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Writing by Hand

There is mystery behind not knowing what words come next when hand writing. More difficult to come by when typing. The slow paced nature of writing by hand leaves mystery to uncover, even for the writer.

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There’s a pleasant seduction behind the ink of a pen. Something about not knowing how long until “the surprise” or “the point” lands on the page is alluring. Even knowing where the work will go isn’t enough. The casually paced process is designed to gradually expose.

An arousing lust, flirty and curious for the next words, drives the ideas forward. As if it smiles back tempting possibilities and teasing wants. A sexy little dance, while motionless, wiggles in the back of one’s mind as a playful draw for more proceeds.

Biting a lip, dragging the pen across the page with delicate hands to guide purpose with care. Ever-so-gentle and crafted a letter at a time, the love filled spiral of intrigued pries. Digging up the fertile soil in search of seeds. Fascinated by the limitless capacity of imagination.

Turned on by the reckless direction, starved and animalistic.

A raw, dangerous and unpredictable monster dressed in ink is the hand written narrative.

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Breaking Up

Heartbreak is a natural part of the adult progression. Whether it's in love or generally in life, you'll experience humbling moments. Many of these moments will be easy to get over, but others, like a breakup, can last for the rest of your days.Here is a piece about having to let go of love. About heartbreak. About getting to know yourself.

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I go through certain periods of psychosis in which the voices make my choices.

I write.

I write.

I write in circles. I blind myself to reality and formulate strange incoherent, inconsistent, persistent, and dissonant insistent… thoughts.

I thought.

I thought I was something I’m not. I rot inside because my façade is all I’ve got.

I’m arrogant…

I’m bought.

I’ve got no image. Through my imagined magic I manage majesty. Anxiously, I go on. Apathy naturally pushes me gracelessly to move forward sluggishly.

I own nothing. A walking lie.

I try and try, but there isn’t a real me. There isn’t someone there to see. So I write.

I write.

I write. Understand, I don’t know why. I don’t understand. All I know is to try.

I’ve become…

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