In my times of greatest conflict, I find it easy to write.
Flip open a notebook. Pick up a pen. Write my fingers into a tizzy. Let my fingers lead me into alternative, imaginary worlds...
I wish I could write from my heart. I wish my heart had hands to write what it felt. I wish there was some process through which my feelings bypassed my mind and all the other regions of my body that seem to throw them into confusion, and just went straight to my hands, to my fingers, so I could write, and adequately, clearly, express what I feel.
I wish I knew what my writing voice was: you know, that style, sound and quality that is uniquely, distinctly me. I wish imitation were a difficultly acquired skill, instead of an educational necessity. I wish intelligence, uniqueness and individuality were more readily advocated and encouraged, so that more people would grow up discovering themselves – their true selves – in their own ways, instead of getting lost in a sea of shiftless imitators. Then, perhaps, perchance, maybe people would find themselves. And I would find myself.
To find oneself: what does that mean? To find oneself?
I need to find myself
Amidst all this empty drifting
To pour my heart into a bowl
And do some careful sifting
What I need is to be totally completely free
What I need is to be totally completely me...
Who am I?
In times of greatest conflict, I find it easy to write.