Myself

In fearless honesty, like a dream that cannot betray, whereupon awakening, recollection of detail is less important than the feelings that remain, I write with the perceptivity, the sensitivity, the sensuality of susceptibility rather than of opinion. I do not mean to inform but to confess, where confession is a declaration of belief.  Though it is seldom my intent to offend, I do nonetheless, never carelessly, but evocatively. Just because one is offended, though, does not mean one is right.  Who am I here, then? I am as I appear, in appearing as I am. Myself who mine is for the courage no other to be. Myself when I am real.