Compose

I am home. I left early, yet again, and arrived late last night to a warm bed and familiar surroundings. The exhaustion that I felt made me want to write; to funnel my energy into paper for remembrance. I am obsessed with fragments, I always have been in my writing. I feel that what ever you write should reflect an inner soul and not seek to recreate, purposefully, the outside world around you. I sometimes break my writing up into two categories: the interior- where I let the soul transgress and whether abstract is a word or not is of little concern- and the exterior- where I use what I feel on the inside as a motivation to captivate my surroundings. Either way both need the other to survive. I did not write last night, I never write when the inspiration is there. Instead it comes randomly and is very fleeting. Most of the time I lose the thought before I can ever write it down. I suppose all those past words are floating lopsided out in time. Is it correct to say that I am halted by my words and confused on where to write them? Either way, I know what is a calling. One can not dwell on the interior so much and not need to recreate a fallen era of words that is lost in the modern books called "literature." Seriously, if I see another Stephanie Meyer book called "the best book I have ever read" I might consider hitting them with an extra copy of Faulkner that I have lying around.