I don’t understand you.
The language seems like it wants to scream. It was poetry in different forms. I was a kid who liked to write. There was a rough edit of a single book. It survives somewhere in the heart. The writing continues. To write through every single narrative, and to write through ideological walls is the only plan.
I want you to comprehend what I don’t.
Drawings contribute context, but ultimately it is a smorgasbord. I was raised Catholic and then played with atheism. It was a fool’s gambit. I had an ideological identity and then nothing seemed to fit. My only desire is complete freedom.
Writing forms like an incomplete illustration. Perhaps god without religion. It is something beyond narrative time and ideology.
Spirit animates life, this realm communicates.
In silence, I breathe.