As I sit and dwell, no ruminate, on the latest novel being discovered, I find a depression that explains to me the life of a writer. A sorrow and an emotional drain that pours into the soul to the depth of a black hole. A reality check of my life streams through my synapses like an unending cobra of film slithering through every foil and foible of the past, and the forked tongue senses each nuance that darkens the mood. Yet, in this catatonic state of fingers pulsating over a keyboard as the ears reach for the soft piano playing in the background, a creativity emanates existing only on instinct. It is during these periods that a voice becomes louder and louder calling me to exist in this hell until a sense of balance resonates from within. Attempting to catapult one’s self into the divisive world of gossip, anger, pride and notoriety is a step into futility if that balance is tilted too far to one end. I capitulate and proselytize as I should assuring the vast public, or even family and friends, know who I am until I don’t know who I am any more. Losing track becomes too simple and always portends an excuse of preoccupation and remorse. I shall continue to write in this existence knowing this is my choice. As others get in their cars, drive to the office or work, satisfy themselves with a job and a paycheck, I shall find a space in the world around me to pontificate my nouns, verbs, and adjectives hoping they bring a smile, or a tear, always knowing eyes and ears may be shuttered to my thoughts. If a word falls to the blinded eye and deaf ear, so be it. I cannot alter people’s perceptions if grounded in their own muck as they sling it around in their own barnyard of a life, caring not who is spattered. If I relish in the desire to keep hoping for that miracle when I am forever shielded from the hurt, this I shall do until the ashes drop from my urn into the lake. Perhaps it is then, and only then, I may find peace.