The people that loves you will say to you: “You are brave, but not alright.”
Did they say that to Sylvia Plath?
I am not a brave writer. I have said this before. I say it to myself over and over again until it becomes true. Until I doubt myself. Until I cannot become disappointed whatever I will face.
I want my voice heard, yet I don’t want to be known. I want to hide behind my words, the words, let myself disappear in a mist behind them, so that people will react in awe and respect at only my words, but never see me. My selfish dream.
Will I only truly achieve legendary fame by dying young and obscure like Sylvia Plath or Arthur Rimbaud? At the peak of my game? (Such a young life wasted.)
No, life came and found me; I’m both too selfish and too humble to waste the chance of existence by giving it up.
I do not want to publish for the sake of money, for a living. I give my prose freely, dependent on nothing but my inspiration and sudden urge to write. (Ah, my naive mind.) I cannot claim the words’ existence, hardly even their composition; how, then, can I claim copyright? The words belong to all of us. You built upon the words of others anyway.
I simply want to strike a core. To resonate with a soul – if possible many souls! I want to inspire the poet in you; to bring forth the words to tell your life and feelings through, no matter who you are. Give food for thought. Somehow make sense of the world. Or, at least, form it into shapes that give meaning: words, art, music, song, anything!
I’m not brave, but if I can give you that; ignite that spark, for all my faults, I will be content.