Erudite?

The best thoughts seem to occur in the out and about. What accounts for mental blockades? What is so intimidating about the written word? Is it a lack of practice, of habit? A shere lack of skill? How many hundreds of pages don't flow out of countless human souls!

The written word is material mind, tangible thought, exact expression. The written word is a menacing promise of transcendence. It is the vanity mirror of the narcissistic psyche. It captures the abstract in a few visual lines. The untouchable comes within reach of the eye, which pretends to penetrate a learned mind. I seek solace in artifice, I pursue comfort in the tedious...just to entertain a notion of freedom. What I find is nothing in this search for clarity.

The written word alarms me. I depend on it as much as I discard it. I desire it as much as it escapes me. And as it pierces through my restless soul it fulfills me and brings me joy. Phrases that love me and hate me, that consciously infiltrate me. They are a reflection of my conditioned existance, the echo of my solitary cry. They remind me of the human plight for independence and communion all at once. Before the word, what likeness had the human notion?