Monday, March 29, 2010


Everything in front of me, everything that has consumed me lately is nothing I can write about. None of it. As a writer & someone failing miserably at my self imposed challenge, this sucks major donkey balls. But I can't. It's as simple as that. Not that I don't have the ability to do so. I know the words and the rhythm of their flow. I just can't play them for an audience - way too......much.

I realize the hypocrisy of this. This is my refuge but it's not safe to write my innermost thoughts. I've created this blog to allow those of you who care enough an opportunity to peak into my world, I followed the creed "write what you know" - my life - but shut the curtains to the peep show. Hello, my name is The Resident Butterfly and I am a hypocrite. For now, its a moniker I accept. Hopefully temporarily.

All this time I've turned inward to write, let my heart doing the writing. Damn near everything I've ever written started as an idea in my heart while the mind served as spell check. However, that's not an option at the moment. The heart will tell what the mind won't. The result of this battle between heart and mind has led to utter un-inspiration. It's as if I've placed sanctions on my words to keep from spilling my heart onto paper.

So what am I to do now? Where do I go for inspiration?? Like someone who loses their sight, I have to retrain my survival skills, regroup and rely on something else for the time being. But in the end, is this true to me?? Time will tell.

-- Sent from my Palm Prē

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