The destination of a single thought.
Had I known in 1994 that portions of my most private writings perfectly fit the characters that would wander into my books. I might have been a little nicer to my creative self.
I learned the hard way. If what you write daily is truthful. The end result will be a relationship you can trust. I know instantly when my personality is faking its way through pen scratches and ink droppings. My left hand. The five fingers that keep my pages balanced. Takes up no space when racing to correct the heart playfully building word place on a single page. The destination of a single thought.
Unknown.
I laugh like a child while paging through the chapters of my first book Halloween 78.
To locate the guts to spill out words and scenes. Then paste them to areas much farther than me. I do cringe when I wallow through the cussing. The editor in me wants to creatively redesign the purpose of the paragraph. Only to realize. I was only sixteen at the time. Not fifty two going on three hundred.
Thirty seven years after the dust first fled from the darkness of my dreams. Each word still resembles a time and place.
Even while penning the lines that ran between the binds of Conversation with the Devil. 2009 feels like ten minutes ago.
No matter which day is pressed into the calendar. I hear from other chunks of the planet how this book has helped them learn to look beyond religion and into the spirituality of walking the true path. I fear finishing my current book. Three days after Conversation with the Devil drew to a close. I suffered a heart attack. The destination of a single thought. Includes those that are never written. Characters come and go. Scenes light up then dim. Better brighter ideas still arrive. But I've already put down my writing instrument. "Save it for the next book." I tell myself with demand. Smiling. I return to the page with less judgment. Knowing at any given moment. The Poet and or author of books can spring in any direction. Covering whatever selection is dropped on his eyelids while praying to a God that's firmly planted his left hand over my heart. A thought. A paragraph. My arms hurt so bad from so much typing yet my mind can't and won't run off with other thoughts. To make baby thoughts. Giving them no name. Just a place. Inside a story. That could and will act as seeds. In cities, countries and dark corners of the world. I can no longer see. So why then do I write?