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www.kevacho.com
©2002-2024
Kevin Michael Vance
Writer - Portland, Oregon
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July 19, 2006
To brood
My thirty-seventh birthday kind of, sort of, snuck up on me, as if by surprise. And the taste of it is to some extent bitter/sweet. On the one hand, I am healthy (thus far). I have a job and a life (somewhat). I'm not actively looking for a woman/girlfriend/lover, so much as I ponder the possibility of trusting someone again, as well as toying with the thought of how trusting could I possibly be. I am, however, far from where I wish to be, nay, yearn to be. Gearing up for what could be a very important event in my life concerning my writing and my career (or lack thereof). My ex stated to me in a letter that I expressly asked her NOT to send, that my writing came at the cost of her own happiness. This of course, was a complete and utter surprise. And to this day, I consider the depths of depravity it would take for a person to tell another person that their life's dream, their ultimate goal, their passion, from which they garnered so much joy and happiness, was the cause of all their suffering.
Strange.
My writing is something I do not chose to do. It is something I MUST do. Call it what you will, but writing is life to me, it is the blood that thrums through my strained veins, the wine that lends to my vision a heady swim of color and sound; it is natures call, in its most basic and simple form; it is rhythm and music. It is THE reason for living, and one of my main reasons for continuing to strive to be better than myself (this, and the sublime envelope of warmth, love, and support I receive daily from all my family and friends). Asking me to remove my fingers from the callous familiarity of my computer keyboard is like asking me to stop breathing. I will not stop. I cannot stop. To stop writing is to die. And there are many things I hope to do before that dire day.
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