In an age of laziness...

Having read a short segment of Steinbeck's East of Eden recently as a favor to a fellow literary fanatic, I felt something of an admonishing guilt rise from my interpretation of the author's message concerning the intrinsic qualitative nature of mankind.

Steinbeck wrote of a preternatural predisposition toward goodness, badness, or a combination of the two traits as the three existing possibilities for human character.

His exploration of these aspects came from a frustration with the insipidity of post-industrialism creativity (or a lack thereof) and I equate that problem with my lack-luster infrequency when it comes to writing these days.

I miss it.
I genuinely do.

I need to go back to the "one page a day minimum" standard again.

We seek to be so disconnected, so airborne at all times in order that we might float with a knowing downward gaze at all of the common people below.

And yet it's in our Earth-bound plummets that we find ourselves rocketing into one another in a way that can only be called violent in order that those collisions might produce long-lasting scars of friendship and love.

Learning to write all over again

I'm feeling like something of a lazy dunce.

I haven't written anything of true substance in such a very, very long time.
It's as if I've turned away from a part of myself with whom I find little in common at the moment.

I do not like this.
I do not want this.
And yet here I am, in this very place I neither enjoy nor desire.

I'm so tired of being in such places.
I used to find them in cars, en route to parents' houses, in bars near whiny juke boxes, and on tables, in front of people who do not understand the needful dissolving of classism.

I feel faint at the thought of just how much I have yet to record and yet perhaps all of that possibility will act as fuel for a continued future effort.

I have so much to say and so much to hide.
And yet I wish to tear away the curtain.