Marsha's Introduction - the first bit

Are words more valuable when they flow unrestricted, and convey the honest yet inaccessible stirrings of the unconscious? The chance of offering an accurate slice of my mind is surely more probable then. And isn’t that what art’s about – overcoming the physical limits that divide one mind from another, taking a running jump at that wall, fighting against the inevitable solipsism? These words, bumbling about in the physical realm, should glue themselves in to a bridge. If you suddenly see something valuable in these ink stains, does it mean I have succeeded, we have succeeded?

How would you like me to write this? Should I tell you now it isn’t true? I am living it as I write it, does that make it true?

You see, here’s what really happened . . . I was a loner. I sought life. I was overpowered and fled.

 

 

 

 

Or –I sought the wrong experience.

 

Or – I will always be overpowered by experience.

Yes, they all seem probable. If you wade in deep waters, all it takes is turbulence, a minor uproar, to carry you away. I am forever apprehensive as I tread the black water. Creatures snake past my bare soles and my heart sends pulses in to the cold ripples.

No, here’s what really happened . . . I made the story up. I was dissatisfied with the real event, and decided to explore an alternative ending from the safety of a daydream.
I’m Marsha. I’m an echo of the author – a splinter in her soul – and as such, my whole life may end when she puts down the pen. I’m a ‘could-have-been’, an ‘almost’, a seed that never took root. I’ve never ‘made it’ out there in to reality before.

This is more than truth, because it’s now happening to you too. I offer you my hand. This is a great indulgence. For the both of us.

Reviews

[TLK]

To travel within words, always leaves me expectant and throughly excited to the point of maddness. I like the way you phrase your meaning with intimate stops, as if, taking a breath with words, a great read, well done.