by Larry Brody
NOTE FROM LB
From time to time – well, okay, constantly – I engage in what I believe is a kind of self-analysis common to writers. In my case, it invariably goes like this:
My Emptiness States Its Purpose
So what’s this search all about?
What’s the point?
Do I seek truth? Beauty? Love? Life?
Is it a hunt for reality? For self?
And where do I look? Where do I go to find
What I need?
Am I in control? Or driven by demons? Compulsions?
Desires?
Is it the end that’s important, the solution, the
Attainment of the goal? Or is it the search
That everything is about? Am I blessed to
Hunt forever, or damned?
I tire, I know that. I tire of the restlessness,
The constant prodding, the emptiness within my
Soul. If I long for anything, it’s for an end,
For a chance to accept whatever is,
A chance to be.
A search for the end of searching?
Too simple.
Too paradoxical.
Ironic in the extreme.
Another word game between my spirit
And my heart.
An end to this sport!
If victory is out of the question,
Attainment an impossibility,
Then all that’s left is relief.
Feel it, see what happens. Say it:
“I want relief,
An easing of this restlessness,
The loss of this urge.
I want to stop dreaming.”
I lie.
Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.
