On writing

I wish I could write every day as much as I can. I mean as much as I physically can.
To the point where my fingers are falling off of my hands, to the point where no thought or idea remains inside, to the point where every thought and idea was born anew.

I fear sometimes that I say things others have said, I think ideas that had already been read and seen and understood and used up and thrown out. I fear that once I think I have my master piece put together the way I see it as perfect, the literary ocean has already churned this book/article/thought over and over to the point that it is the seedy pulp you see clinging to the rocks on shore, their use disappeared in the ebb and flow of the tide. But, this fear is less than the fear of letting these things remain inside, never to be seen or read or heard.

I fear many things. But I fear that I will have permitted good thoughts to fester and rot inside of this vessal. I believe it is better out than in.... so... here I continue on my journey... one day hoping a dream to be realized.