At times I feel so unformed.
My “becoming” experienced as drifting.
Perhaps such shapelessness constitutes a price of freedom?
Hence, while freedom is curtailed by the liberty of others, or biology: I wrestle, in addition, with lack of direction.
How to advocate a lifestyle even I may not enjoy?
For me, any hopes to produce something worthwhile carry a suspicion of fantasy.
Whatever I concentrate upon leads to an imaginary complaint from neglected possibilities. Thus my shifting between art, poetry, prose, music and philosophy.
Yet these urges to “keep options open” might work against the commitment required for achievement in each area.
What I do, today, is more important than what I intend to do, tomorrow.
Writing can be lured toward an ideal:
a certain beauty, via vivid sentences, lit by clarity, evocative as distant incense, hinting at transcendence, through the web of art.
Or, in the present case, while living isolated and unknown:
a dream that people I cannot meet might still be touched by my words.
After the telephone call
into that gloomy front room
lit by a single electric button, glowing
red and insistent,
under its display panel,
though daylight’s blade
slicing between almost-closed curtains
smears one white fleck
across darkened glass
perceiving some discomfort
in the head
from neurons alert
with forlorn lucidity
while self, sensed
where conflict had been,
on the site
of my defeat.