After reading http://arjunbagga.wordpress.com/2012/12/01/adagio/, I decided to give myself a challenge. I want to say something similar.
What is original thought? Do we share thought, without consciously knowing? How do we ‘locate’ another person whose thinking aligns with our own? Are we obligated to seek others, with different views, thoughts, viewpoints, to make us whole? What is the nature of our existence? My goals-
- Write arjunbagga’s blog post in my own words.
- Use his post as a prompt for my truth.
- Write succinctly.
I am true.
Living in a false mind with a blind eye creates nothing more than a child’s magic trick.
What is the purpose of writing a blog?
To collect followers, rejoice in the number?
To become Freshly Pressed, experience the maniacal crowd of hungry people surround me, only to see them run away when I fail to continue to provide for them?
Or do I write in Adagio, to reach those who speak with their hearts, feel with their souls, discuss the truth of life? Listen to you enjoy living, breathing, writing?
I began this blog to practice writing, to create a place in which I could test my ability to reach you, make you think, laugh, cry, consider. I’m free to be me, as the mood strikes. Is this artistry? Perhaps.
Artists with natural talent or talent for gleaning attention from others – do they have the ability to be grateful, appreciate, or do they look down upon others as small, less mighty? How does one remain humble within the circle of hungry hoards begging for more? Does the record keeper make a mark on the chalkboard as readers come and go?
I get no pleasure in the bright light of instant stardom. The night sky will do for me, as I feel the pull of the silver thread from my center, connecting me to all that is.
To pass me on the street, you wouldn’t recognize me, though if you’re really looking for me, you may see me through my blue eyes.
At once, I thought I would blog a book. Now, I will blog, and the books write themselves, elsewhere. If they become my shining stars posthumously, it matters little. I’ll still be here, true, for a time, until the metronome stops.