I feel that there is a certain material grossness to the words that I have written in all times before now. I have never quite comprehended the source of my poetic and lyrical inspirations, and I can’t say that I quite do now, except to say that I seem to be a veritable well of emotions… I’m not even sure what I quite mean by that.

I let a lot of my own selfishness and my lusts control what goes into what I produce in terms of authorship, and it drives me a bit mad that it seems I’m writing little more than “love songs” although I think there is much more to them than that. Perhaps, I’m just wrong and they’re all crap, but what little feedback I have gotten for the ones I do put out publicly has been generally overwhelmingly positive. The only negative feedback I get is always in terms of complaining about form or meter, and when I write usually I’m only concerned with conveying the thought or idea. 

I’ve read something recently, or did someone say something, about many of us not even thinking in complete sentences any more, that texting and instant messaging has eroded our language skills by a great degree. That doesn’t seem to be the case for myself, although it seems I am always able to expand on whatever I produce, so I suppose that’s a good thing, although I do try and aim for the simplest most complete beautiful thing I can produce when I set out to write a piece, poetic or prosaic.

There is little doubt that I stopped writing in journals because I never produced much of value with my brainstorming exercises. But I do not think that it is necessary anything wrong with my mind, as much as I have simply lacked the skill with which to convey my intentions, which has been a source of great frustration within me for a very long time. Perhaps the things I have been reading recently, and a great deal of meditation over them, has changed my perspective on how I view myself and my thoughts. I’ve always had this, perhaps unfounded, belief that much of what I produce is wholly spontaneous and sometimes, when I am perhaps being more rational than I realize, I think I simply ramble to no useful or desirable end. But I think it’s mainly a reflection with my frustration at the lack of progress I feel I’ve made in my life, and it percolates through my work with a distinctness of pessimism and cynicism that really isn’t necessary. 

I resemble a simply frustrated artist producing the best she can within his limited means, but I know I’m not as limited as I have been led to believe. I’ve been told I ruminate far too much for my own good, and I believe this to be a lie by people who think they are protecting me, when all they are actually doing is killing my spirit and my soul, and without those what is the point of living?

It’s like I’m irreparably brain damaged. But the mind is not the brain, and the mind can overcome the mortal easily corrupted organ to achieve far greater things than the combination of mere chemical reactions and neuron firings would accomplish. The body is merely a vehicle for the Human Reason and Intellect. People forget this in our day and age, and it’s really a problem. If this is the only thing that I have learned from Nicholas of Cusa, then it has been paramount to re-imagining my purpose in this existence. I have been long overcome by gross (and sometimes immoral) materialism and carnal lusts and shackled by the restricting cuffs of debts that should simply not be allowed to exist. My “culture” and society has failed me, but that does not mean that I should allow myself to fail in kind.

I must admit to myself that I simply can never be perfect in anything that I can do. It’s far too easy to give in to things that can temporarily comfort, but they are too often but bandages that peel away within very short intervals of time…

~ Amelia Desertsong, August 20, 2024