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I AM A WRITER….. Perhaps I can only truly be a writer, in spirit ((to borrow a word that may have connotations which I do not mean to also borrow)) I can only be this, what reality dictates from me I shall endeavour to do, yet always cradling writing as a true passion. This writing is all I have to talk to and share these scattered membranes of ephemeral thoughts. It seems that only a pen and paper and the produce from my own mind may understand me. Perhaps I am the only person who can relate to me. One still perhaps wishes there is another who may truly understand, perhaps a dozen or so people will each understand a fragment, but which people and which fragment will they understand. One may try a tiny fragment on them and watch as they recoil with horror. If they recoil at a fragment how disbelieving would they be if I presented the whole ((but a whole is something not even the whole may comprehend)). Will I be enough? Can console with myself be sufficient an understanding, will one be able to be content with that. Will mere words and understanding be enough WITHOUT SOMEONE TO READ THEM. Do we then write for ourselves or write for another, or do we write for BOTH. HOW CONTENT will I be with writing for an EMPTY AUDIENCE.