I needed to be told that it would be okay. That I was okay. That I was a writer of worth and that I was ready to explode out the door and live life. This was written alone on July Fourth weekend. My final month in that apartment, in that entire life. It was an Independence Day celebration that ran straight through to my core. I needed to move forward. I needed a dialogue.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Talking to myself, characters in my head
Agent Spider, originally based on my lifelong friend Tim who'd otherwise known as Tom Trainor later in the story, was conceived to be all that I wasn't. Confident, dark, daring, and endlessly initiated in all manner of mankind interactions. He was wisdom from ancient sources, primal truths that held strong long ago over fires and under the stars. He would tell me everything that the suppressed, self-loathing personality who had control over my self needed to hear but was incapable of communicating and absorbing.
I needed to be told that it would be okay. That I was okay. That I was a writer of worth and that I was ready to explode out the door and live life. This was written alone on July Fourth weekend. My final month in that apartment, in that entire life. It was an Independence Day celebration that ran straight through to my core. I needed to move forward. I needed a dialogue.
I needed to be told that it would be okay. That I was okay. That I was a writer of worth and that I was ready to explode out the door and live life. This was written alone on July Fourth weekend. My final month in that apartment, in that entire life. It was an Independence Day celebration that ran straight through to my core. I needed to move forward. I needed a dialogue.
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