Knowing is overrated. So is thinking. I feel, therefore, I think I Am (because nobody knows anything about anybody, not even themselves). Feelings are less transitory in my life than thinking, but for most people, it's the other way around.
Be you. We are all just guessing our way through this thing we call life. Here’s something you might identify with, readers. Have you done much writing? If so, you know your heart, mind, and soul all get in the game. Yet, what do we notice and why?
Poetry. I think it helped save my life. But guess what? I didn't even notice that no one commented on any of my poems for five years. When I realized how long I went without a comment, I didn't blame anyone. I was a little sad momentarily, feeling alone as if I myself was a book under Emily Dickinson’’s bed.
But I didn't blame anyone for not knowing what to say. I was probably crazy, like a lot of us poets are, but ultimately, I was only writing for myself anyway. Everything was so abstractly linked so as to not have psychiatric care called on me, that readers probably just scratched their heads and moved on to read elsewhere.
I don't know if my being alive is a miracle or if I'm just too stupid to move on myself. I do know how to laugh at irony from time to time. My life means something to somebody once in a while, and that makes me feel useful and most grateful.
Smudge, don’t grudge.