Red Room Where the Writers Are

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 I hack my way through the jungle of ideas, toward the shining city on the hill housing the Holy Grail, or perhaps a windmill dragon. The gnats of distraction dive into my eyes, the snakes of delusion curl round to choke me, the tiger of insecurity wants to devour me, and the monkeys of my ignorance mock me. Why not go back to the town of commonplace satisfactions and write homilies.

Stop wanting and you will find the end of worry.  Do not waste time, but rather practice daily – you will find the way. Make others happy and you will be fulfilled.  Love and do what you will.

I have my bag of glamour slung over my shoulder as I wander too close to the edge – I could fall into the abyss and be lost in a moment or I could fly away on a whim. What I need is a necessity – the call to ‘do’ it then I will jump on the back of my horse called enthusiasm and charge with my lance in hand to rout the armies of restriction – they will not stand against me.

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