I am not a writer…

It hit like an unannounced punch to the midsection, in that it felt as if the air was being extracted from me by force…

Or… I could liken it to a knife with the sharpest blade melting through my epidermis as if it were butter.

The pain was excruciating to say the least.

The ego is delicate, but the cruel duality of ego is that it is deceptively heavy. In the aftermath of my ego, pride and assurance collapsing upon me is a feeling like no other.

Hearing invective when you expect the opposite is a bitter pill to swallow, but once the bruises fade and the bones mend…

One should stand stronger in spite of the trauma endured, but somehow that is not my reality. I still lay, crumpled on the proverbial pavement, a shell of what I was before invective riddled my body like heavy caliber bullets.

I thought that I had rediscovered who I was after losing my identity for what seemed like an eternity.

A third of my life was spent chasing unrealistic expectations within the confines of an entity that did not reciprocate my love. Contrary to the legal standing of corporations being people, I found that to be… Untrue.


I emerged like the Phoenix from the proverbial ashes.

Discovering… rediscovering, that…

Writing is what supplied me with purpose and invigorated me…

My output increased exponentially and I gained ground on projects that had lanquished over the years… I was a writer who had wandered aimlessly, but had found a redemption that had withered from his grasp.

Only to find out.

That I’m not who I thought I was.


I was told as a “matter of fact” that…

A person who hasn’t published a book does not have a mandate or a right to deem himself a writer… Or to extend anything of value as it pertains to writing.

In effect I am a charlatan of the highest order.

So much for that burning feeling of purpose, I think it was extinguished as I crashed to Earth.


Still I lay, writhing in pain scattered on the rocks.


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