once upon a time, many many years ago...
i have always written. somewhere in my mother's house are stashed the notebooks of my youth.
i was/am/always will be intimidated by fellow writers. their talent wrinkles my brow and pushes me into submission where i stand in a dark corner reading their words and thinking, 'dammit, why didn't i think of that?'
i stayed in that corner for a long time and am only now ready to poke out my head.
not because the talent of others has dissipated, but because my intimidation is slowly turning into fear of words whithering without sunlight.
i have no idea what will become of this.
not so long ago, i had a pair of kindred spirits. we were the masters of random.
"why do cigarettes taste different in different places?"
"do you think if everyone remembers one moment in your life, then combined their memories would add up to you?"
"i think i want purple hair."
"we should go hiking...in montanta. tomorrow."
our youthful quips and questions became lovingly known as spontaneous blah.