Who are you dear reader? Why are you here and why should I care? It shouldn’t matter and you shouldn’t answer.
What has happened is, I’ve let you get inside my head–and I do much of the time wonder, where you wander when there? This has crimped my tongue from way back down, deep inside my throat, pinched by tendrils attached somewhere between my soul’s edge and my throat’s gullet.
Some people actually dance, unconcerned with who may or may not be watching. Writers all the more, need to heed this admonition and avoid pondering, “who be the reader? That critic on your shoulder, the one on my neck, nibbling at my most whimsical notions has to go and so here my friend, my dear reader, my ex with the hex or the brother with a shudder that his black shepherd of a sibling could conjure up such hellish dribble; all of you whom I formerly wanted so badly to please … is my Dear John notice … I’m leaving you and cleaving unto my page. It’s what is best for us both, believe me … and see, that’s the point. I know you believe me and I know you want this too.
The dancer who cares not who’s watching, is the one we want to watch most.
Should they stumble, and wince, even once, we feel that. We feel what other’s exude and we exude what we feel we are expected to … if we’re stalked by such spirits. I’m here to exercise the demons that I’ve let possess my voice. There are many, and you have no idea who you are. Ironic.
But in truth, you will read as you please, and likely more so once I let go of the ghost of whom you’ve become, whenever I think of writing about that time when we, you, I, and me were free to be just us, then, always, and hopefully yet again, now, here, today, it can be worth putting on the page.
It is salvation of the creative soul to finger a painted mind and dabble where bits usually bruise if flicked just so. So let it be. Let it fall, fly, free-dump itself into a flipping back–tumble and let the chiggers bite the dimples on our bums.
Tethering one’s mind to a memory, a moment, a woman or a man whom we’ve let have that power, that angst, all save for maybe that wet-spot we reluctantly napped in, means we’re closed off to truly remembering what made us stay, live, love that way before. Wondering what “they” might think if we freeze on the page all that drama, putting it finally where it belongs–rather than allowing their lingering stigma to sway the way we think this hour–this second.
However, let me be clear that I’m happy you’re here, whomever you are. I’ll try not to let my secrets slow down as they ease out, onto the page. But keep in mind, no matter how much you want this, no matter at all, I’m doing it for me. You’ll just have to roll over into the damp spot this time as I’m not going to move once I’ve nestled in. I need my dreams to return to their former 3D format , unfettered and full–figured in the frame of my mind–asleep or fully lucid, I’ll fly either way, but I will fly and just know this: should you climb aboard, clinging to a tip of my wing I’ll be as accommodating as I can but my eyes will be on the road ahead.