Who's got the power?

‘Finding Forrester’ came to mind today. I think it was in a conjunction with the desire to write for the sake of maintaining my mind clear, uncluttered from the daily crap that life in general has to offer. What came to mind in fact was the chance to write without stopping, without giving a thought to the words that were flowing from the annals of what? Of something hidden inside, of what some may say is talent while others may say gibberish. I read somewhere that writing a lot, compulsively is actually a sign of a tumor in the brain, of a benign brain cancer that is disrupting the blood flow, that is slowly eating away from the tissue, that is killing, inevitably killing the organism.
But a little optimism here, COM ‘on, a little faith that everything functions properly.

Let’s say that one belongs to the first kind of writers, those that have (or believe against all hope) talent. Ultimately however, the judgment belongs to the general public. It belongs to the reader, to you. You are powerful, absolutely fucking powerful!
You have the chance, the will, the opportunity to decide whether this gibberish makes sense to you, whether it needs to be dispersed to the masses of other folk, the late followers, to pass to them the power of decision…and they to their generations.

Enough for now, though. ENOUGH I SAID! You may be on a way to gain power, but power is also concentrated into the pen of the writer. One has to decide to put pen to paper, hands to keyboard, mind to reality, in order to grant thoughts and ideas to materialize and only then to let you be the judge. In this case who is the powerful? WHO IF NOT THE ONE WHO WRITES?

Of greatness and the wasted possibilities

A person can loose himself in the vastness of possibilities, yet in the end the lack of action merely confirms what one knew all along – risking the effort without success almost always outweighs the lack of action…in effort, in disappointment.

And of course it is not a secret, often the desire to create for the purpose of greatness looms in the early morning hours (like a pregnant cloud full of moisture yet lacking the proper current of cold or warm front to relief its heavy burden) it seeps through the early seconds of the day, it nudges its way through moments before and after the sipping of the lukewarm coffee, it lingers in the air , then slowly dissipates leaving the fait sent of something that could have been but would never be.

Follows one more sip of the coffee, one more braking news - scrolled over during the endless moments of boredom now stringing from the wire between one event and then another and another, one more check of the empty e-mail box, and suddenly desire comes again, a bit less enticing this time, with the same sense of a second drag on a cigarette, less intense, still desirable, but now almost perceived as a lost cause and only regarded as a nice, lovely thought that could have, that should have, but would not…

Other thoughts now take advantage of the neuronal paved highway. With the approach of 9AM the body awakens to the all too natural, all too biological need that has been neglected since the very early waking hours. ‘Relief’ screams the bladder, ‘Air’ reminisce the lungs, ‘More Coffee’ thinks the man as he heads over to the kitchen for another cup of refreshing wakefulness, of false rejuvenation from a liquid squeezed from the beans of a plant which not too long shared the same sunlight with another (more potent, illegal and forbidden).

And so the day proceeds, with its ups and downs, with its ins and outs, with lacks of the desirable and abundance of the unpleasant and even more of the peculiar until the evening’s arrival when several questionable (one would even think unadvisable) yet pleasant events cloud the mind for however brief a moment before night overtakes the senses, wrestles down the weary body, conquers the ability to remember who the person is, was...

Then greatness changes shape and color and clothes, and comes back, this time in dreams. It teases and taunts, excites, hardens and softens certain members, licks and slaps, loves and hates, and cries, and laughs until the Earth completes its circle.

And again the Sun dispenses with the night like a client with the woman of questionable virtues. Greatness retracts back from the scene, lacking time to even take a shower before slipping into a new costume and hitting the mind hard yet again.

Another cup of coffee, another wasted day, and so spins the circle of wasted possibilities, of what one calls life and another hell, and yet another ‘a gift from God’.