Sitting on my writing desk are three figures. Made of cheap plastic they stand a mere couple of inches in height. Historically these three men could almost be considered the new age wise men. Who are they? Well simply put they are Einstein, Freud, and William Shakespeare. Three guys that could really write. Not like the dribble I produce. But they might have just inspired me to reflect a little.
With a rocks glass of Jameson to my right and the boys to my left I write. But in a style I'm not really familiar with. Mine. Wrapping one's self up in a literal kaleidoscope can be detrimental. Finding the words to channel your inner Twain makes you a fraud. A self indulgent idiot trying to copy instead of create. I bring shame to the house of Clarke by my admittance of being just such a person. Writing was always something special to me. A way for me to convey deep original thoughts. Often my fear of judgement (and a certain lack of grammatical ability) forced me to write for acceptance.
I turned thirty five this month. This chronological mile stone seems to have sparked a new found self awareness. A rebirth of inner enlightenment. And lets face it, a whole new attitude. My "Blog" will no longer consist of the latest muff shot of Brittney. It will not address Trailer Park social dynamics. My writing will be life based. Real, pure, without influence of the masses. Whiskey influenced none the less, but not the masses.