Friday, 28 October 2011
He doubts my source
Today he told me on the phone that pain only initiates the art and that my beautiful words then flow afterwards.
He is wrong.
When a passionate emotion owns me (beit pain or lust or love or hate or exhaustion), it drives every word I write. There is no eloquence in starting a sentence with it and ending it with another.
It is his way of living with the bump in joy he causes me. Bump down. Bump up. All cause.
I write it. I feel it as I write. It is good.
If you read this and feel the ride then say. Tell him, he is wrong.