Will they be creative?
Will the help me?
Who should read them?
I should write without limit – fearless of who should happen to read them.
Can I insult you? Am I allowed?
Do they all have to be questions?
Why is my heart down? Why so gray? The pencil! It’s because the pencils are disgraced and now seldom embraced.
If I had a house and it was made up of these words, what colour would it be?
If it became a ghost town, would it last through the ages?
How long would that house stand without inhabitants – a decade, a century. A week. Would it flicker as it was put on to auxiliary power?
These electric words flicker and are spoiled by my temperance.
Where has my creativity gone?
These words are unspoken, never to be uttered – maybe just to sit on a hard disk gathering age, time – no dust like the honoured copy of old.
So much is said and pulses in this transient world, these electric words. These people sit entombed in a world they can’t touch – and so quick the vipers tongue to damn their fellow inhabitants.
I will never use the word silicon.
These electric words have no sound – not unless they are translated for the hearing impaired.
Sometimes I’m scared by how much I can do with words – and how little.
I am often scared to cull – the standard hacks regulatory feature. It’s like finding the frontier, walking ten steps and then setting up camp and colony.
Like creating a metaphor and never sharing it’s depth with the unknowing. Like knowing the grace of the world and never showing its reflection to itself. Have you ever wondered how a King would learn a musical instrument? I guess it would be the Lyre. Who would have the courage to teach him? Would he flatter himself with how brilliant he had become. Perhaps not if he had learnt as a child, from a wise teacher.