At some point you have to come to terms with truth.
My writing sucks. The mere fact I spend the time to align thoughts into words and sentences proves very little – especially in contrast to what I absorb from others – but that will change.
Much of what I have to say anymore pales in comparison to reviews, opinions and philosophies that so many contribute these days on electronic platforms. Self-serving, trite cliches litter this blog and few are stimulating, disturbing or inspired.
I still believe original thoughts that relate to my own short tenure in this world will reflect the true self and perhaps the only accomplishment we can hope for.
This weekend, I discovered the works of Charles Bukowski – a poet who arguably wrote what he felt. Regardless of form and function, he was honest. At times crazed, drunk and obscene his works at the very least have cracked my published conscience.
Moving forward, it seems liberating to publish the good, bad and the ugly. At the very least perhaps a reader will make it to the end of this feeble prose to arrive at some honesty.
Let’s fact it. Some days gleam with purpose. Others are rife with frustration, trouble and doubt. That’s the dilemma for any artist. But art continues for arts sake.
With a volume of courage, it may be the coming days are a bit restless and chaotic on my blog as I break through the hesitation and courtesy of mediocre attempts at relevance. Is it noble to be perfect, muted and vapid?
What say you? Truth, fiction or polite conversation?