words are an organic form of expression, they create without limiting, they bond with the imagination of the reader, take new form each time they are read. adaptive.
i write because it is something i believe i must do. it is not that i have a particular talent for it, but rather it helps me learn what i'm about. the creative writing course i took in highschool taught me to stay up late and pour out thoughts, a set of emaculately scrawled pages which culminated in illusionari. they were not new thoughts, but ones that had floated around for a while and finally got out, along with their bastard siblings that were only me trying hard to be creative. sometimes i look at my own words with disgust at their inaccuracy, but other times i find great solice in their power to record and create emotions and affect even he who created them. i was addicted ever since a day on a train from providence to hartford, when a floodgate opened and many things showed themselves, new to my eyes, old to my vision. it was a short lived moment that i was able to stretch for a while and then left behind while in the wraps of a greater love. in college my mind could not find relief in study, and i was anxious to put some inner turmoil to rest. i talked to a man i had never met, we wrote frequent and long corespondances, and i took him into my confidence with an acceptance odd to me then and now. i told him of my short affair with writing, and he said i should start again, see if it was something important to me. it took a while for me to believe he could be right. they say words come easily to geminis. words yes, but meaning comes a bit harder. i guess this is all part of my quest.

"At various times, I have asked myslef what reasons
moved me to study, while my night came down,
without particular hope of satisfaction,
the language of the blunt-tounged Anglo-Saxons.

Used up by years, my memory
loses it's grip on words that I have vainly
repeated and repeated. my life in the same way
weaves and unweaves its weary history.
Then I tell myself: it must be that the soul
has some secret, sufficient way of knowing
that it is immortal, that its avast, encompassing
circle can take in all, can accomplish all.

Beyond my anxiety, beyond this writing,
the universe waits, inexhaustable, inviting."

Poem written in a copy of Beowolf by Jorge Luis Borges