Blues on Mr. Vice

It is over now. It is done. My quest to find connections over the Internet has reached its conclusion. And so has this blog. The vice of all vices, that which turns my blues into technicolor monsters. And for what? Some kind of perverse attempt at finding my voice in a mainstream medium. Gross.

I've lived as The Hermit ever since I began to post my writing online. This blog is actually stifling me creatively. I'm not sure how this is so, but it is. This blog is not really a reflection of me anymore. It's a reflection of someone I used to be, and the culmination of the prayer:

Dame la muerte que me falta.

I am not a blogger. I am a poet. I am a wild, radical woman. I am a death dancer, a shadow who dares the waves on the beach to strike. I am not a new age zealot who believes she has any answers. I do not believe in finding answers. I believe in being the question. I am the stars' lover and the colt's hoof, an alchemist of food and drink. I'm a private person, not an exhibitionist or a narcissist. You'd probably miss that unless you knew me. And nobody reading this does.

This is the end of the charade I've been playing with myself.

Mostly, I am tired of all this old shit. So I am letting it go. I am diving into the world of flesh and bone and rock and tumbleweed and reality and me, and keeping my laments silent, as they should be, and my desires close to my skin.

May love always find you.