Like the Nomads.
I suppose I’ve written- As in the action of “writing”; Placing pen/pencil to paper swirling letters like mixing paint to form words that eventually construct a sentence. Or a few. But I, myself, have done no real writing in a long time. This. Right here. This is the realist thing that I have written in close to six months. Not for it’s content–mainly for it’s energy. The flow. There are pieces of my heart on this page, in these words you are reading or listening to someone else read. And this is what it really is to write. And I don’t know what it means. I really don’t give a fuck–and more importantly, I think that’s the key. You need to break up pieces of your heart and mind and intertwine them with the ink inside of your pen, so they are felt and seen with intense purpose to you and to others. You shouldn’t worry about what it means–Just write the fucking shit down and keep going. Feel it. In every syllable. As if your lover is kissing you on the nape of your neck–Or caressing you with their fingertips on the small of your back. The key is to not know what it means and to not give a fuck anyway because that is knowledge accompanied by acceptance. Acceptance into/of what, you say?
I don’t know. And I don’t give a shit.