Been a long time since I just carried a paper journal. I have notebooks all over the house...dozens of writing files on jump drives....but the pen and the paper feels like...
Just feels right for some reason. At this point I have no f**king clue what I'm going to write-lyrics, movies, stories? Who knows? The point of it all, though, is just to write.
Bleed out on to the page. Whether the words are poetry or prose...lyrics or scripts. They must be bled. The writer must bleed. Those words may seem beautiful to anyone else that reads them, but to the writer they are poison.
The longer the writer keeps those words inside, the more he dies...a little bit each day...until the unbled words kill him.
Words that are meant to heal someone else must first be bled from the pen of the writer. And...by doing so, the writer winds up being saved, too. Everybody wins. The words find the people they were meant to find. The author has excised that demon....temporarily at least. Some writers only have one batch of poison they need to bleed on to the page. Some must bleed almost constantly it seems. It has been a long time since I have let the pen just go where it will. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't the least little bit anxious about it.
The truth is, though, I have to get some of these words out of my head, before it's too late. Melodramatic? Perhaps. It's no secret that I'm prone to theatrics and eccentricities. Either way....through the blog...through status updates or tweets, or through ink on paper...more words will be bled this year.
Hopefully that will be a good thing for everybody.