It’s interesting how time passes. I thought it was Sunday and it was only Friday this week, but then again I do too many life altering drugs to be aware of my surroundings. I haven’t written on my blog in awhile, there are plenty of reasons (first and foremost is I’m a piece of shit), I’ve been really busy with work, life took some casual left and right turns yadi yadi yada.
I write to you not because I have some brilliant news or a revelation, but simply because I enjoy the act of writing. I used to laugh and feel bad for my favorite author J.D Salinger who said by the end of his life he didn’t write for anyone. He wrote simply for his own pleasure. I thought the idea of an old man sitting alone writing page after page was depressing but nay, it’s inspiring. When one writes they are allow the true intimacy of an art which knows no bounds. It’s like curling up into bed and finding the sweetest coolest crevices along your blanket and having a crooked smile awaiting your rest, and then to dream where only your psyche can control your utmost fears and desires.
I don’t know if I want to write and just share my life story with people who don’t care, but I am assured that my life will consist of many pages and revising of what it means to be an author. I’ve admittedly gone crazy…on two accounts now which have landed me naked in public and in the hospital. I think art is meant to be taken out of a page, out of your mind, and acted out through the world. You are only as good of a writer as you are a poet, or hell, a dancer! Since it is what melds the world together that makes people understand your words and feel them as though they are theirs. If I solely spent my time typing, there’d be nothing to write about.
Ben Bonkoske 