Part of me likes the poetic form, because I can cast shadows and hints... and not take the time to tease out the finer nuances of what I might be thinking about.
Part of me likes splaying rough drafts across the page, like some shotgun blast or ejaculate... no regard for edits, for attempting to rein in the wild thoughts or taking time to consider how these words impact those around me. Perhaps I believe that I am fearless enough to support my ideas, my theories, my ramblings
Because they tend not to be second-heard sayings, or gossip, or other wild conjectures emanating outside of my experience:
“I do not want to use your quotes”,
“Nor do I want to talk about how you lived your days”
So, a hint, resulting in a spastic blast, and then... the comments begin to come... and I get confused and I start to lash out - because I’m conditioned..? Because I did not “consider all of the ramifications..? Because I did not want to be seen as “a problem that demanded immediate solutions..?”
Alas... getting confounded, again and again, makes me want to give up on writing, all together - cremated by critics.
...and I become aware of how everyone, even me, goes to the knee-jerk reaction of offering solutions...
...and I begin to feel shunned, with only shadows of ideas to guide me, as to why...
And then the downward spiral really begins to take hold, and drag me deep into reclusion and avoidance...
And yet - this, too, is fragments. This, too, is a first draft. ...and my bipolar curse will probably leave it, unfinished and unedited - lost in the quadrillions of electrons....
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