Sometimes in a moment of contemplative serenity, a poem will seamlessly wander over and float into the space that my mind is currently occupying. It’s as if this poem has no troubles in weaving in and out of the tightly woven stitches that keep my mind in bounds. Closed off to the frivolous interactions with others I am, though open is my mind to ideas and novelty.

Other times, I find it lingering off in the distance, just out of reach, though tirelessly showing me glimpses of it’s intricacy, as if to tease my efforts at snatching this sweet sample of word candy at last.

Under stimulated, I feel useless. Time is seemingly wasted and my mind is bored. Though engaged, I feel alive. The blood pumping through my veins gives me new life and awakens, cleanses.

Yesterday I was receptive, today I am irritated. Pushed to be creative, to pull a congenial compilation of thoughts from my streaming unconscious, in order to feel accomplished. Forcing something that should flow out of me with little interference or input from my own conscious self. Poetry is a dream with little editing, while theories are careful words born from contemplation.

And yet, I write. I type. I write to expel the musings out of my mind and heart. I write to feel a sense of calming. An eagerness and tranquility which inhabit my being simultaneously in order to eloquently make meaning of things with no significance. To convey passion is to persuade others.

I admire the writings of Victor Hugo because he has mastered the art of seemingly effortlessly combining flowery poetry with commentaries on society. To wash the world in compassion while opening their eyes with logic is my greatest desire, the force that lights a flame in my soul, which I humbly carry behind me at all times. It is not yet in sight, but it’s aurora is visible, shining clarity and truth on what I see in front of me.

I wish I could hold myself accountable to regularly scheduled writing exercises. Would it be an excuse to proclaim that there is a lady named Isabelle Myers who attests to my introverted, intuitive, feeling, perceiving personality being responsible for my aversion to repetitive tasks? Routine frightens me the way stepping outside of the perceived comfort zone would startle most advocates of strict regimen. Regularity is the culpable hand that pushes me into a cavernous emptiness that is inescapable.

I feed on innovation. Critique is my creed and questioning is my quest. To learn is to change, and to change is to grow. Progression moves humanity forward, and examination paired with objective scrutiny is paramount to harmony.

I am a writer and I use words to make sense of my nonsensical surroundings. A piece of paper never corroborated an individual’s ability to make beautiful things. Passion does. Dedication does. Determination does. Experience does.

Unorganized is my conglomeration of miscellaneous, though heartfelt thoughts, yet I wish to add them to the mountain of ideas and ramblings that have already been born. Ideas and musings can be freely passed along from one mind to the next, and that my friends, is the greatest power that we have as human beings, and may that never be taken away from us.

From one overcast Wednesday morning in my untidy apartment to a stranger in another place who cares enough to listen to my mind speak.



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