InkStains: The White Moleskine

I’ve been doing this for over three months now. It’s a lot of writing. I’ve written until my hand cramped and I thought it’d never come back to its original shape. I’ve written deep into the night, during lunch hours, first thing in the morning.

I’m discovering things about myself.

I’m exploring new places, venturing outside my normal areas. I’m writing essays, venturing into science fiction, fantasy quests that take place in the modern world, brief pieces of autobiographia.

And my mind — my mind is reeling. So many possibilities. So many words. So many ways to twist them and use them. So many lies to tell, and truths to reveal. So many horizons I haven’t crossed. So many mysteries yet to be solved, riddles to be answers, conundrums to be confounded by.

I write about poets and artists. I write about dreamers. I write about fairies and tigers and gods. I write fables. I write fever dreams and hallucinations. I disguise profundity as foolishness, and pretend at the profound when I’m merely being foolhardy. I pretend to be clever, even when I am clever.

I’m awakening not just the writer in me, but the artist and the dreamer and the gypsy and the thief and the magician and the dragon. I am all these things. And I am unleashing myself.