Why I Write: A Window Into The Soul — Or Just The Mind?

Why I Write

Why I Write

An excerpt from a journal entry written on the 12th July 2017

“A sense of injustice”.

Is it that simple, that easy? To quantify, to explain, to pontificate upon — away? The vanity. The shame. As if words were weapons; yet words are weapons, of a sort. They have a power of their own. They are — or can be — strong.

The body is as weak as its maker, but this doesn’t matter: fuck font, structure, superficialities — this is about content. And I want to make you feel. That is power, in my mind; yet you give it, freely. Or relinquish it, rather. Power over, or power to? It makes no difference. Power corrupts. I want nothing to do with it, yet I need it, at some level; without it, I have nothing. Without it, I am hollow. Power is as intrinsic a component as it is a composition in its own right. Power may not be, but it enables, some semblance of freedom. The Golden Country. A no-man’s-land. Lustrous. Voluptuous. We are seduced, effortlessly. Desperate, stupid, greedy.

Human; armed with…