The purpose of writing remains a compelling topic that one mentally explores but doesn’t lend itself to an easy definition. It implies that there is potentially an audience motivated in some fashion by voyeurism and a need for community with like same exhibitionists as well as those who need to expose their inner selves. The type of persons who find it necessary on a daily basis to defeat the sense of crushing indifference that they suffer as individuals at the hands of a massive society whose rules are at best arcane and seemingly changing from day to day. Crowd management having never been a healthy wellspring for the human spirit. No one can claim total mastery of what is hoped to become art not simple science. No compacts cam be made to assure that if you look at mine then I will definitely look at yours. It is more likely the ancient analogy of carrying a flickering oil lamp alone in the dead of night within total darkness. too easy to stumble at any moment or encounter a restless wind that will snuff out the worthiness of the content like a flame. The brave and fool hearty simply enshrine their daily rant without regard of the accumulated meaning overtaking the pinpointed topics rendering it possibly trivial specious gossip. The careful check and recheck there assertions against the prevailing currents of opinion that take from the best versions of reliable authority available in the now. Is the cycle of motivation not ever in danger of exhibiting the Pavlovian intention to continue to ring the same bell? For what security for one’s reputation is there in assuming the guise of expert knowing that the public sphere of same is such that a rival will one day find you in that Golden Bough with the intention to slay you to steal your crown? Better in that sense to be a hermit and keep your verses closer to your chest to recite to the safer audience of your imagination. And perhaps there rests the truth that ones assembled thoughts are in part wishful fantasy that assures one’s worth as a buffer to other conflicting views of what the world is or should be? For those who have spilled words out of their brains for so long that one has to wonders where the location of the source of this font may lie? The greater mystery of endless multiple existence versus the court of solitary self remaining insoluble in terms of whose universe is it anyway? The egoist’s? Or a simultaneous incarnation of of the same multifaceted beast? Such be one’s heaven to bask in the glory of a well turned phrase!
The Quiet Glory Of A Well Turned Phrase