I used to write essays for my journal, things that took time and tears to produce.  It was not a 'blog' kind of writing, not given to the staccato pace of a good weblog.  My journal entries were introspective, reflective and, too often, preachy.  I wanted my writing to have a better perspective, a view not limited to the world of me, I wanted to create these words with a view toward the broader world.  A blog -- a thing perhaps best described as a narrative of websurfing, thick with links to and pithy comments about other fascinating websites -- seemed a structure that might promote extroversion in my writing (and maybe even in my thinking), a format that might help me get out of myself. 

Every soul did once experience greatness in one of its incarnations.  Every crippled creator today has, somewhere in its karmic record, an experience of flowing, lush, endless-seeming creativity which perfectly and appropriately expressed the contents of every void, and every shadow, and every humble hiding thing within.  And everything has happened already.  In the moment that is life, the moment of the soul, there is no past and no future -- all that was and all that will be, very simply, is.  My task is to give that creator, that god, an incarnation in this temporal plane -- this existential flatness upon which god has smashed itself, splattering godself into its component parts; you, me, time, space, life, death, love, hope...  I am called to transcend my existence as a mere speck in an enormous abstract stain, to knit from these tenderly intimate, yet infinitely distant parts a coherence of god.  I am called to reclaim from the surface of this canvas, a whole truth, to draw up out of the accidental randomness of that flat reality a real, honest-to-goodness multi-dimensional creation which will be my contribution to the ultimate reassembly of everything into One. 

Wallowing in the balm of self-abuse.  Bomb.  Sometimes only it soothes.  I let reams and reams of words float through my brain, through the day, words like lost waifs that beg with poignant eyes and broken-hearted hope for recognition, or acknowledgement, or even just for some evidence that their existence is not totally and completely superfluous to the world.  Words.  Were. 

Like throwing pennies away.  It's wrong.  It's a waste.  I discard the most precious thing that could ever come this way, and I feel powerful -- like the five year old who threw the Sunday roast on the kitchen floor.  I want to feel powerful, senselessly powerful in the way a drowning man in desperate panic attacks his rescuer.  I do what I don't want to do; because I don't want to die, and I don't like to cry, and I do not want the responsibility of these precious things, words. 

So I throw them away.  Oh, if you only knew the words from today, the stories they told, the fictions they wove more true than any fact.  Characters with breaking-blooming hearts, plots of universal significance, songs of hoping-eyes brightened, of unlived lives brought to glorious joyous life...  I trash them all.  Then in tears I go back, as now, to recover, reclaim, retrieve; to regain some fragment of that which I discard as the result of trantrums so very infantile -- as the result of agonies all too mature.

I must post this -- whatever this is -- before my electricity is shut off for the night (Mass Electric is doing upgrades in the neighborhood), and before I lose my fickle Internet connection.  The anxiety of the end is always the last reason to start.  Sometimes it is the only reason.