I’ve thought a lot about what I might write this week which means the post will be clunky. This is what happens when I think too much. The cogs jam, my fingers get in the way of the machine. It’s the same when I am trying to make poems. The more I think the worse they are. The ones that I’ve had any success with are the ones that came fast, with a big dose of me getting out of the way. If I could bottle up me getting out of the way I’d be on to a winner.
I think possibly I am not in the best of places right now. Having said that neither am I in the worst of places, life is fairly sweet. I am just a bit bewildered as to my place in it. I was thinking today I am under the table. This big table where all the proper people are sitting, eating. And yes I can smell the food down here and yes it smells good, but I can’t get a place at that table.
So here I am, under the table, watching for the crumbs that might make sense of my life. Those little crumbs of light that I hope are going to lead me out of the woods. Maybe they will, maybe they won’t. I have no way of knowing, but those crumbs are little beauties when they come. And I think perhaps I am not the only one down here, under this table. That I may well feel entirely alone but that it is quite possible in fact that there are many, many of us crammed down here. Perhaps under the table isn’t so unusual a place to find yourself. So the question becomes not how do I find a way to sit at that table but how do I find a way to sit with myself?Roblox HackBigo Live Beans HackYUGIOH DUEL LINKS HACKPokemon Duel HackRoblox HackPixel Gun 3d HackGrowtopia HackClash Royale Hackmy cafe recipes stories hackMobile Legends HackMobile Strike Hack
As always the writing helps. I write and I am finding a way to sit with myself. Nothing more but also nothing less and this is no small thing. If we can find the moment to sit with ourselves, however that may be, then perhaps we can make our own bread, our own crumb collection, our own light.
I would give you poetry news but there is none. I wrote my draft a day, I submitted nada, heard even less than that. I read this week about a woman who wrote a play a day for a year. A poem a day? Piece of piss really. Still it’s my piss so that’s something and a something is better than a nothing, even if it’s a pissy one.