If I had a penny for every time someone told me I should be writing, I wouldn’t be rich. Regardless, I am humbled and appreciative of any and all encouragement. I went to school for writing. I wasn’t exactly sure what I would do with such a degree, but I was hoping for clarity, or a job lead, or in the very least, validation I could write. We all know life doesn’t work this way, at least not for most. I realize now it’s up to me to declare and prove my own capabilities. So, here I am.
I’ve run the gamut, and come no farther from where I set forth. I’ve carried with me all along an understanding of what I have come here to do, though, I’ve silenced it for many years. This ‘understanding’ wants me to tell you that I have nothing to offer but broken poetry and uncomfortable art, and to please accept this gift, and also apologies from the deepest part of all that is wild and mysterious. It hopes that together we build a community of solaces, one where we find exactly what we need to feel boundless, creative, peace, inspired and refreshed.
I will write with no shape, form or sense as to what might unfold. I have tried many times to be sensical, precise and someone the world relies on for information and context, and failed. I refuse to continue along a path that isn’t my own, continuously letting everyone around me down, because I can’t hold up my end of the bargain; a bargain I never bargained for to begin with.
Some people have said to me, because the writing degree didn’t pan out: You should teach, become a librarian, sell insurance: Anything; you must do something that makes sense! When I hear these statements, I recess to where no one can find me. I feel as if they want this: A shrunken version of myself to fit neatly into a space they understand. These people are advising me to cut living branches from trees to burn for fire I might cook from. They believe it will cure my hunger. I want to say to them with utter reassurance: If I do what you say, I will circle back, burned. And also, I never once complained of being hungry.
I know one day it will be too late to start again. That day is not today, thanks to you. Both paying subscribers and non-paying subscribers to my Substack will have full access the content I place here. I trust those who are able to pay will find gratification in knowing they are the ones keeping this project alive. This and also, I am forever grateful for the opportunity to share with you all the nonsense, partial wisdom and wit I can muster.
This is all I have to offer this week. I’ve been camping where the forests are endless and make it so the world appears only shades of green and brown. Sometimes, I could just barely make out the sky. I will compose a story from my trip, alongside a few other contemplative situations I’m currently wading though, to share with you next Monday. Until then, stay wildly mannered, and may only the most wonderful of wondrous things find you.
