A writer’s profession

Words always come first to me, then music. They often come together. I have not had the luxury of having anyone in whom to confide. I have not had a shoulder upon which to cry. As I write, as I listen to music, I cry to myself. It will pass. It always does. The joy will return. The height of my joy can never exceed the depth of my pain. Words come more easily to those familiar with the romance of extremes.

I have never been desperate for love. Maybe it is pride. My most basic rules are these. Never love anyone who treats you like you are ordinary. He or she must love you more than you love him or her. Flaunt the imperfection. Love the imperfection. Unconditional love lives in a world without perfection, our world. Perfection is the enemy of the good.

Happiness may only be achieved through acceptance of everything you are dealt by destiny to undergo; accepting it, so that you can get through it, like a gauntlet, and realise the benefits of emerging from it. Surrender and acceptance grant strength. Denial, refusal, hesitation, postponement, cowardice, award you nothing.

Writers need only three things – solitude, exile, and that fertile combination of artfulness and artifice.

Long ago, I disembroiled myself from the ravelled choking maze of caution. Telling it like is, is the first step in changing the way it is, the first step in liberation.

Rest in awareness. Move with passion. Cease, only to begin anew.

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