What Must I do?
What shall I do to appease the crowd? What words must I fling from my lips to caress your soul? Should I write of love? What of misery and torment? Will the depiction of shadows infesting a lonely heart suffice?
Must I not touch the politics of the world or may I, but I am not of the side you desire? Does what I write bore the mind? Are my stories too bleak, do they not bring enough happiness? Are my words too bitter, too painful?
Do my thoughts not consume the very air you breath? Must I break character and fall inline?
Or is what I write done well that most fear of what I write? Are my words, my thoughts too heavy for the average heart? Am I to shrouded in my words?
Should I write more clearly more precise in my endings and my beginnings? Does my grammar cause your eyes to cringe?
What must I be, what must I do for you, for all?
For I feel the lack of interest build as I build my collection of stories. I can see the lethargic collapse of my audience. But I also feel and also see, the growth of my character. The improvement of my thoughts and the discipline of my work.
I am humble in my ways for I truly crave no wild hopes of a grand audience. Well, some days I think such things to be grand. Then, I look to where my thoughts stem. They come from the broken bridges I have rebuilt. From the agony I have slept with and from the suffering and triumphs I have held.
They do not come from those that pass by in walking, nor those that speak loudly or those that live poorly. They come from the inspiration of my heart, the inspiration of fading moments.
I see myself as healer, of myself, not of you, not of any other. But if what I write strikes well into another. May they not cling to my ever persistence writings. But may they find themselves in a moment to understand themselves.
To see they are not alone as I am not alone. May they see that what they feel, what they think is plastic. Malleable with with time, with effort and persistence to act.
I write not for the crowds that want something I am not. I write for the crowds that wish for the deeper, the darker, the reality of the heart, I write for the crowd in me. I write for myself and for the world that I bear within me.
I am no DaVinci, no Tolkien, no Poe, no Rembrandt of art, nor words. I am merely me and as I, I will write what falls from my heart. I will be what I desire to be.
Do not fall from what you are passionate about. Though your passion may go unseen do not falter to empty chairs that face the stage. Do not fall to the loud voices that tell you to stop. Do not falter to your failures, your mistakes, do not cease the workings our your heart.
What keeps you going toward your dreams, your passions?
Or, what is holding you back from them?
Reach into that heart of yours and leap into pages of the heart, A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words
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