a footnote

I theorize that as one ventures into a world they find themselves inexplicably drawn to venture in, various landscapes or climates feel better than others; or they were set on certain favorable settings before going into it.. And maybe this journey covers a number of years because they are learning largely on their own, trial and error, hit and miss, but in those trials and misses they do register a few hits which compliment their natural settings which were favorable to the entry into the world they were inexplicably drawn to; maybe it refuses to let itself be described in a few tidy words but you recognize it when it is near because grants the precious gift of feeling like you can simultaneously settle back while also busting a big nut but it doesn’t feel like busting a big nut but feels almost as good as the best kind of way to bust a big nut.

And it’s because you know it when you feel it and you remember what it was like when you knew it that you know it is absent; this might be why one becomes frustrated; gets down; wonders if they were idiots thinking they had a grain of ability worth watering and nurturing. But there whispers a gauzy voice that says all that happened was a bunch of briars arose thick enough to obscure the door; they look so impossible to clear away and an easier road beckons and it’s so easy to start down that road because the scenery isn’t ugly; except it is a gradual – the most gradual – downhill grade and it seems like on realizing the error and turning around, the way back up the hill is ten times steeper than it was; and you know those briars only grew denser and the thorns sharper and meaner; but you can’t continue down this easy one. Just can’t.

Must go ahead and climb the hill, carefully deal with each thorny bramble cane by cane, sustain the cuts, because it’s either do it with natural settings or go find something else to do.


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
This entry was posted in identity, lamentation, observation, thoughts, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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