Sunday, August 12, 2018


  I was born with stories in the eaves and grew up surrounded by tales, peeking out from the threshold between sight and peripheral. My first words were burdened with the weight of narratives that to this day I struggle to bear. From the moment I scrawled my first squiggly line, the ledger of unwritten legends has grown a mythology all its own, daunting adventurers and scribes alike. I've tried to tame the tomes of trouble touched tarriers, and a little ration of lore was all I could muster. The aroma of arias provided balm to my withered words, and loud was the sound of silence on the featureless reams, both digital and pulp. Unwritten are the records unreported, and I welcome the stanzas therein.

  What is a Writer that does not write? The answer taunts from the empty page and eludes chroniclers and part time poets. What is a Writer that does not write? A failure that succeeds by definition who's success is measured by emptiness. I live to fail, and fail to succeed, for I am a Writer that does not write and victory is not a companion I wish to invite.