I think that when it’s said and done, everything begins to make sense.
The world is a kaleidoscope of memories, some illusive and other pressed inextricably within the brain. They flow in a swirl of colors something like a collage but it’s not something we can decipher. We made it but it makes no sense. It has no meaning and because it’s such a big mess. Rolled. Smushed. And twisted in a large knot, we’re left baffled. That’s how my mind is, at all times.
When I decided to write, it was to do something that no one else had done but then I realized to write as no one else has, one has to let go all of their ambitions and have a free, clear mind. I read one hundred something odd books a year and you know, I’ve never really remembered anything about them. If there were paranormal creatures, on the other hand, I’ve remembered. I believe that I remember the plot of How Stella Got Her Groove Back, because it was the first “adult” novel that I’d read. My mother gave it to me when I was ten and told me because I had the mind of a thirty year old, she’d allow me to read it. I read it in a day and a half and that was only due to the fact that my mama made me go to sleep that night by eight.
A great man once said, “The desire to be remembered is the aspiration of the dead.” He was correct because unless you’ll write something as simple and old worldly as Jane Austen, Herman Melville, or Mark Twain, there’s no hope to be remembered. There’s one thing that we all should grasp and hold by the horns though, our unique voice.
When the clock struck twelve this year, for the first time in four years, I slept through it and when I dream, I dream of nothing rememberable. Theirs blackness and attempting to remember only causes a migrane. I’ve stopped this. When I do remember my dreams, they’re something odd. I’ve had dreams that repeat themselves. Ones that are so odd and horrifying in some way, that they make me want to write them down and discover them. I remember these dreams, it’s hard to forget, especially when one that continues to repeat 1:90, meaning one day out of ninety, is of you being a murderer.
Now, as I sit in my family room, the air is clear and the house is silent. The only sound I hear is of my neighbors packing their RV and these crazy ass people who are on AMC and for some reason or another, I can only think of the thins that intrigues me most, something I refuse to divulge.
This post is full of relevant and irrelevant information but it’s my first post in three months and the first post of this 2013 year. If you’re so interested in what I’m up to, read my updated About page and then, check out the bookshelf in a day or two. I promise, you won’t be disappointed because I’ve given away information I’ve not yet divulged.
Happy Wicked Reading!