Even in this new day, as we only try to wake from the darkness that enveloped us, comforted or confused us, through the night; even as we give pause to immediate thoughts in the disquiet of the world, this city, this coffee shop (or wherever you find yourself). Even then (or now) as we struggle less and less with the inspiration and more and more with our intentions, we are never quite sure if we will find or have found the clarity we seek. It is naturally, even organically, a process we value, a practice we attempt, that is far less than pedantic and far more than studied. It occurs on its own, full of questions and comments, each random line on the page is purposeful if only because the pencil leaves a trail of thought and indications you are alive and wondering, at all times, as we should be… shouldn’t we? Let not the questions cast doubt on what you know, but instead observe where the answers take you. Surely you are alive enough to count yourself in? This is the pattern of life: to question, to observe, to make use of your time — in whatever manner — to express yourself beyond the boundaries of what you have been told. Is there a better reason to write every damn day?
© 2022 j.g. lewis
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