I've been reading some of my own blogs. Old posts. From years ago. I said some beautiful shit then even though I felt anything but. Beautiful, I mean. Shit I probably felt like a lot of those times. But I wrote some beautiful shit. Then.
Now I question my ability to get shit done. To get shit written. I stare myself blind at my faults as he kindly points them out just by being there. By loving what I used to hate. Now I question my ability to get shit done. Now when they're trying to convince me to do what I do best. Oh, I want to. For them. But I don't know if my best is good enough.
There's a balance in the universe. We're never cold at the same time. There's always someone to warm the other. Now I wonder if that does me any good. If that will be beautiful shit when I get it written down. I wonder if I can get that written down at all.
Years ago I wrote:
"Me being here is not an act of fate.
Do I write as an artist or a rebel?"
Now I wonder if I write as an artist or a lover?
Where is the rebel in me that creates the art I love so dearly?
What is a lover's tale?