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1 June, 1998 Who can say, why in the course of writing, one can wander so far astray from where one is and how one is and who one is. Or, why it is that sometimes it is so easy to lose the sense of purpose which accompanies an act of writing. Whatever the reason may be, I felt for a long time that I had lost my purpose in setting words to the page. I shut them up again, deep inside me. I hid them in my heart of hearts, speaking only of trivialities, the inconsequential until almost all that had any sort of meaning at all, was entirely lost. Yet ... here I come back again to take up the quill once more and inscribe the passions of my soul into concrete shapes and forms. Should you choose to come with me and follow the path of my heart, may I ask you, gentle reader, to keep your wits about you. Tread not harshly over this ground, and look well before you leap. The secrets and follies which each of us holds within, are not for the faint of heart, the weak of will or the easily offended. With those words of caution spoken, I welcome you in ... |