Interesting how much time has passed since my last entry—not that it matters. In a world teeming with narcs, why add another layer of complexity, albeit in writing? Not that I’ve concluded whether I am one or not. I believe I’m not.
I stopped short—to think, to reassess my starting point, my intent, and my motivations. I stopped writing. There is no music, no words, no lyrics, no poetry in my soul. Nothing epic or ordinary. Just silence—at least in what lies before me.
I call it inner silence because what exists outside is really the mind’s relentless noise: an endless stream of ceaseless thoughts. A word, a gesture, a sigh—any of these seem to have a killing effect. And yet, funny how a book can resurrect.
Specifically, "A Bright Ray of Darkness" by Ethan Hawke. Or perhaps a dark ray of light—whichever you prefer. We are all woven from both light and darkness. Darkness, I’ve noticed, can make one feel old. It is not what is written, but what is not, that speaks more.
Anyway, a good book makes you feel young and bright again—a small resurrection. Or maybe just a fleeting glimpse.
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