A Living Long Lost Letter

                                       

A series of events have led to the release of this letter.

To those of you that follow my scribing, you'll be fully aware that you can expect anything and predict nothing with every new post.

To those of you whom are new, hello. 

I have described myself as a poet.

Sometimes, a philosopher.

Begrudgingly, a preacher.

and...unwittingly, an analytical writer with a filthy sense of humor.

The Blue Bird, as you know me - is always full of advice and rhythmic power phrasing. 

Often, it's quite obvious that my subject matters play on personal experience. 

This doesn't differ to any other art. Most great works are created by means of innocence, experience, hardship, successes and failures. 

And those that don't - are unapologetically forgettable.

For this reason- it is understandable that you, my dear reader, may think that you know me.

To an extent, this is true. But, much like any other human being,what you think you know is quite superficial.

I have all the answers, I'm good at everything, I have a firm grasp on life and perspective, I work hard and I care about people.

These are all wonderful, fulfilling things to be associated with.

But realistically -  It flows a little more like this:

I have all the answers; because I never stop thinking. I'm good at everything, because I'd rather master everything then focus and commit to just one thing. I have a firm grasp on life and perspective but despite my efforts it rarely goes in the direction I would like it to. I work hard but often with no reward in the foreseeable future. I care about people -but sometimes, too much, and more than they ever will for me. 

I'm not a genius. I get it wrong, a lot.

Apparently, this is what being an "artist" is all about.

To have a beautiful mind, hear beautiful things, write beautiful words, create beautiful masterpieces and speak beautiful tones.

But all with a dash of pain.

Without the pain, there is no art.

Only empty creation.

Here is my letter.

To those of you who take the time to read,

When you feel your hidden heart begin to bleed,

Remember that this is the pain that you need,

To make something beautiful, and plant the seed. 

We have our skeleton secrets,

Buried in a grave that we consider the deepest,

They only devour us when we are at our weakest,

And blossom a masterpiece, wiping our souls to their cleanest.

I wish I could have written it better,

These are the words of a long lost living letter.