Clear my throat.
My mind swirls and yet nothing will land squarely into a round thought.
The ubiquity of it all intimidates me.
The ceaseless rhythms of countless authors
having done centuries of thinking,
leading me to believe I have nothing to add.
Where does one find a modicum of confidence to write?
Writing requires self-esteem,
believing that one has something to say that is fresh… perhaps
No, say no…
It is all a pattern of neuro-woven, galactic conglomeration
of humanity stirred into language
Emotion and fact, symbolically art-worked by agreed-upon words
Illegibly felt by some
Uninterpretable by others
Absorbed by a handful, if one might be so lucky as to make a striation
not a rut
Over and over-ridden…
An atomic piece of gritty love.
A. Locke January 2014