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It's like opening an ancient book and relishing in the sweet smell of old. tired. done.
The delicate whiff of some greatness that was, at another time.
The fleeing trace of life and wear that seems to embrace the book for a few moments.
This book is my book. The words that once flowed so freely and wonderously and painfully are from another lifetime. They are worn and ancient and tired.
Picking up this book gives me the permission to rekindle life. Give birth to something new and beautiful and innocent... and screaming with the violent-clarity that comes through experience.
I'm back, and I'm screaming with a vigilance. But it will be wonderful and beautiful and new. It will showcase my pulsating and fantastic innerdemons and dreams. It will scream with integrity. It will echo with passion.
