tabula rasa

Once there was a 27-year-old fellow who turned around one day and realized that he was not working very hard at his dream of becoming a writer. It was an epiphany he first had at 17, but the years began to stack up, and dreams slink by so elusively for the unwary.

Once there was a 27-year-old fellow who wanted to sketch the texture of his heart, but he had neither the proper tools nor the skill of the artist or the musician, so he was left with the most difficult of Art to master: language.

He has spent over 20 years in the study of this sacred calling, imbibing books beyond count, shifting words one over the other in myriad patterns, but he is only still just begun. He is Newton's child dipping his toes on the shore of a sea that spreads before him, terrifyingly vast.

None may accompany him on his journey. None may tread the same paths he treads, nor share with him the joys and the horrors of what he finds along his way. He is alone in the world. That is the sacrifice.

His only comfort is in recording his observations. But the fabric of language is so deficient, bankrupt. Yet he does the best that he can, and passionately believes that the true transfiguration of the mind and soul is only possible through language.

So he decides to keep a notebook where he will practice his art, where he will store his notes, his stories, his sketches.

He will start a blog.