Ever-Beginning the never-ending search for meaning. Some Bleed pens, the present writer open ends, even when I know the close. Poetry or prose, I overstand.

That I can’t change everything, I can’t be everywhere, accept every dare and challenge. So I tackle what I can manage and the rest I delegate with ink and slate. and in this age of tik-tak-thumb, without my ink pen, I’d feel numb, dumbed down: there’s just something about writing it down that no other medium captures, that no other media raptures, like the written word in a silent cell.

One can speak to an emotionally charged crowd, elbow to elbow, strong shouldering each other, jockeying for position, and pressing toward the stage, and draw every reaction from anger to angst, from waterfalls to entranced, but can you sketch the picture you just heard with words, and produce the same?

I write, knowing that I cannot address every issue, but I can make it not miss you. I can inspire you to spread the word and launch it like a missile. I can agitate you into sawing, stapling, gluing, draping, painting a placecard that fits you. To go to the place, from which I am physically restrained, to view you at the demonstration and be so proud I want to kiss you. To make you laugh out loud, then, when, you turn the page, have you reaching for the tissue.

And I began without a subject presumpted, but as soon as it lay its tapered head against my index knuckle my bleeding pen erupted; guess I woke up on the wrong side of the brain. Waiting on the analytical express, I ended up on certainty’s local train – hope that goes to explain the scenic route through which I came.

Not all writing is the same: for instance, intro letters? The bain of my pen-sistence. Yet, at my, sensei’s insistence I opened up to a look, I reeled out the hook. And it’s true that I love to perform. But really, I express these spoken words in hopes you’ll take the time to read the book. After all, isn’t that why we write?