Writer

I am a writer.  I write my thoughts on page.  I scribe. I translate experience to idea to language.  I am a scholar, years of education.  I took courses for years at universities acquiring multiple degrees in humanities and science. I’ve been a student of the human condition. Poetry was my first interest. Later journal, essay, prose and eventually a book.  I was driven by curiosity.  I even studied calligraphy and book binding.  I wanted to be a play wright.  My heroes and heroines were writers and authors.  I read from an early age, naked without a book and a journal.  I still have a novel to complete.  Three books on the go All in various stages of completion. 

I like the story.  This is a selection of history, one’s own and that of others, crafted in a way to create great interest and enthusiasm.  It’s another world.  A fantasy world. A sharing of my mind with another’s. A gift. 

I imagine my life was a journey, an adventure.  I could suit my writer in comfortable durables shoes, thick corduroys, a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. He once smoke a pipe with various types of tobacco. Now he settles for coffee. He especially like Ethiopian Sidona which he buys as green beans he then roasts himself and grinds to be prepared in a drip expresso machine.  He prays and meditates.  He imagines he’s in someone else’s story and tries each day to reach the creator. At least he makes a space for communication.  

Over the many years he’s imagined this relationship in many ways.  He’s thought himself a caterpillar awakening as a butterfly.  In his dreams he would fly but mobs would chase him and eventually he’d come down to the ground exhausted.  At other times he’d feel his soul exploring the night entering the rooms of friends learning and changing their environment in ways that were not known.  There was always a gossamer thread that connected him with his own body and he could follow it back There were visions too.  The earliest one was of shining people of love and light soothing with words like ‘do not be afraid.’  I even saw my clear capsule flying through space amidst stars headed for a different planet than this. I was knocked off course colliding with an asteroid and coming here.  

I’ve never felt of the world and known that I was of the spirit. But this world was so primitive with such paranoia.  Men ruled with money, weapons and war.  I learned these skills, the ground skills but I longed for return to the world of light. I’d find those place I felt truly at home in my dreams.  

There was always this space I could go to where the spirit of classrooms and school existed.  We had treasure hunts and play grounds all without the meanness of this world.  I was split between what I came to be learned were called heaven and hell. I was in some kind of purgatory.  Waiting.  Marking time.

The writer was aware in this world and the next., that parallel universe inside or beside.  The writer met others akin to themselves.  They called themselves artist and scholars. I was a doctor yet I was a patient as well, injured in the class in ways I could not even fathom.

It was even possible I’d written this story and forgotten what it meant.  I imagine myself as an unfinished character in an unfinished story in a box in a basement or an addict.  Time is ticking 

The writer has studied all the various ideas of existence and reality.  There are philosophies and religions.  The favourite game it seems in this universe of sorts is the acquisition of as many toys, machines and property to fool oneself into thinking they have some kind of importance or self importance.  These people are called leaders or dictators.  A lot of folk follow them but it does’t matter. In the story of stories here all end in a number of chapters the most of which are thought a hundred but it’s all conjecture. Each day is a sentence and that word is used for prison and communication.

 

The writer is an observer.  

There’s desire and pain and joy.  The modern games are based on these kinds of experience with the aim to maximize pleasure and money.  Money is an abstract coin of the domain.  Yet the Buddha a great teacher said so clearly , desire is the root of all suffereing.  Further other’s have said “money can’t buy happiness’.  The best research of the good life indeed says money can only add at most 8 years to the base existence while playing with death can certainly reduce the chapters in a book.  No one knows in fact if their novel is to be a novelette or a tomb.  So many believe its a series.  The term ‘multigeneraltional’ is all the fashion just as ‘denial of death’ keeps folk from screaming and running and naked amok in the streets.

Deceit is very popular here as well..  

The writer notices that this space seems to be used by what have indiscriminately called the old and young and people from countless centuries and worlds. The best description given for this place was ‘asylumm’.  There is the individual and the collective.  Various groupings are closest to each other.  The tightest are most afraid or most in love.  Psychologists and warriors studies these attachements.

The writer wrote that theere was love and fear, strange and known, peace and war.  The games people play are more and more the same with greater degrees of complexity.  Chase ad fetch are favourites. Love and sex. Friend and unfriend,  Truth and deceit.  Betrayal is popular.  Without camouflage and weapons , if only of cupidity and the possibility of being food at least for another no one would seem to survive.

The writer has survived. That alone seems a miracle.  The illusion of control is so stark the writer once wrote that he was a comic strip without only the voice over in his control.  Myth and fiction and belief have all been involved in understanding the ideas of fate and free will.  No praise . No blame. No regrets is a key phrase in understanding like time, today yesterday and tomorrow. 

The genetics of behaviour are as profound as the ‘nesting’ behaviour or fort building behaviour others call real  estate.  The individual is born alone and may well die alone but never so alone.

The writer is bemused.  They hold themselves aloof and reflect and observe while the gods of India told the boy of myth that the play goes on whether they are in it or not.  The intellectual experiences less emotion.  Without desire one can be a saint.  Asetism can lead to that.  But it can also lead to psychopathy.  Objectification of the world of others who my be kin rather than objects in a game.  How do we play us and then,  Doess it matter.  Conscience is that feeling that this is ‘right’. It may be innate or the product of experience,  

I am anxious.  The writer is perplexed.  The promise of life and love are the only individual externals but who made the promise and where are they now, The shining folk The ones who say ‘be not afraid’ and bring comfort with their presence.  

Thank you