this is universal and particular

Speed blogging  With reference to silence opposing speaking up, how much license do you have as an author to constructing a truth even when the information is restricted?  “There is always something to say, even when words can’t seem to find you” but I was not listening. I sat motionless, there was nothing I could do with this feeling. I was not supposed to be talking to him and especially about this. The feelings of doubt swelled up in my belly like a sickness. I remained silent. Across the table from us, a couple where exchanging in light conversation. It was fluid, flowing effortlessly and it came to me in snippets. What should I do to suppose what we’ll be done? I gave up the notion, and sat sitting there spectacularly bleak and dumfounded by the answers that evaded us. He’d come there perplexed and confused by my manner, and I’d crossed an ocean to find him and let him know that what I’d found abroad, what I’d found there, shocked and surprised me. Imagine ente...

A portrait of a writer, a master of none. I am inside my seventeen-year-old body. From here anything is possible. Because -this vessel is the only one I will own and I re discover it everyday. I sit in a crowded room that reeks of disenchantment. This is my English class. I am sitting at a desk littered in cave like scribbles. One reads School is a tempestuous lover. Running my finger over the engravings I am reminded of a distant aspiration to be an artist. To belong to the canvas and not the page felt right, for a time, until one day - epiphany.   Fuck Art. Write . I pick up my pen and draw a flower on the desk. It has seven petals and a long stalk. A well drawn flower... Maybe I can be both the artist and the writer? The roll is getting called out and each voice echo’s back here . My mouth is wet. I hear my name and then, as if to make sense of it, I hear it again. I feel my lips open. here . I am here. -       ...