Words

I make no claim to holding any truth - writing is simply an exploration and then allowing of what's here to be told. It's not even a stretch of imagination or a process in creative art, as each word is an appearance of it's own and the mystery to me is that makes any sense at all. For years I struggled to recognize myself as an artist, my writing was fitful, from spurts of creative outlet to long breaks of uneasy silence. It was in letting go of label, need, and message that provided an infinite template for existing words to find me - no longer an artist, but the space for art to be, not a writer yet words come to page and screen. 

It all happens on its own. 

I have no idea how this all happens, and no desire to explore the how or why - my inquiry is to simply listen, or more to the point allow the listening itself to unfold as a secret whisper to my inner ear. To claim any authority or ownership of this would be to listen to a wrongful voice that's not truly my own. 

It's all a mystery. 

And to write from here - takes no more effort than does the page, words come on their own accord and my only (true) role is to be grateful to receive.

~

Peace,

Eric