Tonight I sit here alone in the same manner as I do every night. With my legs crossed, hunched over on the floor with a pen in hand waiting for a verse or two, I search my world for meaning to this timely routine. Words with rhythm but no rhyme, rhyme but no rhythm, it becomes so technical my spirit retreats along with my creativity. What was it that gave me the will to succeed, the will to survive and to fight for what I believe in? In recent days I cannot seem to get it together in terms of social affairs and personal affairs, which in all actuality, is what life is mainly about. Friends and family keep us in tune with reality no matter how far gone we appear to be, they will not let us fade. Personal thoughts, feelings, secrets and attachments are only a few of the self-contained variables that we live with each day wondering if they are morally correct, or psychologically sane. How then am I supposed to get by with such a long list of untold confessions that not even a piece of lined paper will behold?
May 12, 1997