To the darkness I would have never turned,
if it had not been for such a crime unjust,
though you grow within a home unearned,
what shall you do when I am dust?
On my vital essence you feast and dine,
growing round and plump with your greedy lust,
bathing yourself in my heart’s red wine,
on what shall you feast when I am dust?
If I had known my bulwark would fade and wane,
and your clones would rally to wrest my trust,
I’d have cast you out and seen you slain,
alas, I’ll have my victory when I am dust.
The members of my small, yet greatly appreciated fan base will be familiar with my willingness to offer nuggets of wisdom, especially about that which I love.
When one sets out to explore the inner labyrinths of the mind, to find out one’s positive and negatively qualities, honesty is truly the best policy. Only then can meaningful insights be derived.
I often go on writing binges and often stumble across nuggets of wisdom that seem to originate from my own mind. However, I think such nuggets often are the concatenation of all that I’ve read, in detail and in passing. Nonetheless, I offer a modicum of wisdom which may perhaps not be unknown of the reader:
Perhaps all writers must go through turmoil and strife, a place wherefrom all their ideas derive. I find that I can write ceaselessly and clearest when I have had some form of trouble. And it perhaps could be said that the deeper the wound, the deeper the writing.
“I don’t see any use in having a uniform and arbitrary way of spelling words. We might as well make all clothes alike and cook all dishes alike. Sameness is tiresome; variety is pleasing. I have a correspondent whose letters are always a refreshment to me, there is such a breezy unfettered originality about his orthography. He always spells Kow with a large K. Now that is just as good as to spell it with a small one. It is better. It gives the imagination a broader field, a wider scope. It suggests to the mind a grand, vague, impressive new kind of a cow.” – Mark Twain
I will preface this post with a little about myself. Despite what my writing (and speech patterns) would suggest (alas, you can’t hear my rich cadence on this blog, so you’ll just have to imagine it), English is not my first language, a fact that I have only recently come to realize. “Quoi,” you say? Well, my first language is Spanish, English is my second. I never truly gave much thought as to which language I learned first because I have no memories in which I did not know either language. The idea that I had always known both languages was shattered when I discovered that I had been placed in ESL (English as a Second Language) classes in grade school. My English-as-a-second-language status should have been painfully apparent to me because both of my parents had been learning English at approximately the same time as I had. As I mentioned, I had never given it much thought, so I would understand not only if you were vexed, but if you also slapped your own forehead. I suppose my ignorance of this simple fact could also be attributed to two factors; first, I was never told that I was actually in an ESL class, and; second, the teachers I had had done an exceptional job making me feel normal.
I believe my placement in ESL classes, coupled with my insatiable hunger for knowledge, are responsible for the meticulous nature with which I treat the English language. I have been told by many people, from acquaintances to friends, that I am a great writer with an admirably strong command of the English language. Although I am inclined to accept praise (quite gratefully so) from wherever it should come, I am truthfully much too modest and self-deprecating to make such grand claims about myself. I would consider myself somewhat normal, mediocre at best.
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