Lately everything that I want to write is a piece out of my life. The problem is that some of them are private pieces, pieces I wouldn't want to recreate so exactly. I feel like I lack the creativity to change the names and places, keeping all the feelings, moments and faces. Somehow changing it takes away from what it is, which is beautiful realism with a touch of pain. It's frustrating. I feel like I have so much to express, but it doesn't want to march across the page. Instead it sits right below the surface consuming my thoughts, stealing my awareness for its own private purposes.
From angels to mortal men and music to mortality, it's all swimming around in a pool of words, visceral reactions and disparate desires. Some is past, some is present and some is alternate reality. The future remains a question and an inference.
When the words return to my fingers with the intent to be captured and arranged, I will add to this journal. For the moment I have to use all my words for practical purposes.
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