A Writer Biographises

Sometimes I wonder about the image of the writer: The self loathing drinker who offends for sick kicks. The Great American Novel as their lost love; their longing. The servants of agents pressing deadlines. The esteemed and educated sophisticate! The playwright….


What am I

An image? An imagination. A question!

That burning obsession behind our being. !!!WHAT IS IT?

That question.

It drives me mad, and maddens my writing.

Makes me Self.


“Skid dish”

What am I?


“What do I write?” A question he asked himself while reading his lost memories. The leather bound book, holds his passing time; and already shows signs of its own mortality; So does he. “That question!” He blurts out, as he wraps his knuckles to the crown of his skull. He was aware that he was a skeleton. He was aware of so much he had brainwashed himself into believing. The books, the movies, the music, the social conduct of those around him. It all contributed to satiating the appetite of one like him, One who was raised to be a consumer.

As yoga would say,

Consume his own mind does he, hmmmmmmmmmm!?


Funny how things play out. I once took a drive. I left the moment that I did, not one before or after. When I got to where I was, I was traveling at 55mph relative to something I didn’t understand; That moment. KaBlambo! A piece of tree limb fell off of a tree and hit my windshield. I pulled over and immediately I thought about that moment, many moments ago, when I made the conscious decision to drive. I rejoiced in my nowieness; Then, I lamented the broken windshield.

Why do I write.                                                                                               Why don’t I write

sometimes I write

No, WHY do I write? Why do I do a thing, as opposed to another!?

Some would say It is a question for philosophers. I say it is a question relative to my very nature. What drives my decisions? Do I want to know? I fear to understand would be to… be responsible. But that is just a fear. How can one be responsible for falling trees?

I suppose one with a god-complex may believe they ARE.

“…Bah du ching!”

Are I a Writer?

A writer is one who is writing

When you are not writing, you are not a writer

I suppose for now (now?)

I am a being

…A being that wrote

“-The End-“

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