You, Alex, you are scared. Sometimes terrified.
You can’t write right right now and you want revenge.
The source of my trepidation is my unyielding refusal to engage in my life as though it were actually mine; live a torturous beauty and be liberated from all the urges and impulses that demand you forsake what you are and what you are of and you shall be set free, Alexander.
What commands you, Alex? What calls you?
What haunts you, Alex? What beckons?
Let the wind of your storm out.
For that is beautiful.
In the dim, obfuscating glow of transcendence through examination of self lays your ultimate beauty – as this pen is moved through these lines without contract or obligation to none other than the winds that are the storms of your soul so let these same true winds guide you through the darkness and into the light of the sun.
The miracle of life is not endless.
Heed not the proscribed direction of faltering maps but the generation of raw beauty through love of ugly as part of whole; beauty weeps for rest as it is dragged to expound.
None of this is perfunctory.