Outlandish enough to exist. Furious enough to persist. Lines penned in the ether of creativity I found myself in midst on the eve last, before this one we find ourselves currently engaging within.

For even after all these years, the insistence upon finding the space for creativity has not abated. Changed, perhaps, as all things must or will cease to be about being- yet without any clear provocation for reward, even onward in these expressive endeavors I go. And while much of these sorts of things might superficially appear to be ego-feed, I believe myself to have reached a point where such acknowledgement isn’t the motivating factor. It is not for the result which this work must be done. It is not for rebuttal or recompense, whatever consequence great or meager might be got. The reason the music keeps getting made is because it must. I write because I must. And whether a simile, sonnet or song ever gets noticed, I will go on making them as long as this will to go on clings to this weary and wonderous soul.

Stole these lines from a book that stole them from some Zen master, or the like-

‘The heart and mind of this shadowy man

At all occasions is to me most familiar-

From long ago mysteriously wonderous,

It is neither I nor other.’

The shadowy man is that self always set below the surface, yet is of essence to person housing our own arcane identity. Nearly always almost intangible, yet the state of being with which we are most conversant. Both the mask and the wearer are symbiotic and dynamic, yet it all serves that voice in your head that only you can hear. For that same voice while sounding different and recognizable outwardly, is something else inside. Your own voice is sonically separate from what every other being hears, yet that is the one that is most your home. Might be why it is strange to hear recordings of our own words. A stranger it might almost seem.

 Yet this shadow, the honest man inside, he knows that moments of the utmost veracity are those that are often not thought much of while they occur. There is still thought within the thing, within the deed, but it appears not as an idea in hindsight. It exists in something sublimely past spontaneity, yet is neither jumped ahead or lagged behind. The measure of a moment occurs only in reflection. And if that instance of time captured by the present is without the heavily set introspection, I’d be willing to bet it will be recollected as benevolent.

Still, to acknowledge that claim must require enough understanding to know when the moment holds not for such attentiveness. For as the honest from within can encourage the pursuit forward in ideas and emotes- the shadow can also show when the attempt becomes contrived. When the surface is served while ignorant to vast underworld of identity.

And for this, for this evening- I must leave you with only this brief dash. That creative energy was spent much of the last of Earth’s axis spin elsewhere. Fruitfully, I might add. But to attempt to scratch away at more words tonight would only spiral into some desperate lie. Or worse, a wasted space better spent on nothingness.

So the shadow man and myself say good eve, to you, dear reader. Mayhaps something more next week, but for this one exploration need not further dive to find but a pit of limp and listless madness.