The thrill of anonymity is tempered at once knowing it is better not to ruminate aloud clumsily just because no one here knows my name. For once I do not need my signature attached where it could be found using a proper search engine. The best way to use my readers' time here, then, is to maintain a literary standard saying things I would not say to anyone but my diary.
My user name says it all. Ever since receiving "light language" over a series of sweet brief mega-doses, words have become more like a hobby. Now, no one would want a passionate and published writer to start thinking of his works as if they were stamps in a collection, but the truth is I'd already felt the leveling effect the WorldWideWeb assumes upon everyone who puts a cyber-pen to cyber-page. The Light Language is the up side to this early 21st century condition. For once what could be lost, could be found, could be altogether inexpressible - is sublime. Who needs English or French when you're hearing ancient laughter echo from the tiny hollow spaces in your bones? Critical thought no more!
The original clumsy ruminations I came to the keyboard with were, of course, critical. Something about how impossible it is to share this with other writers or acquainances, colleagues, or family. And with that a side-car diatribe about how hardly anyone is secure enough to hear even the gentlest most even-humored critical response to whatever they wrote. But quality is as quality does. I've managed to sum up a couple of complaints pretty succintly, free again to stare at the remaining blankness ... and without trying too hard, that smile will well up again.
It's wonderful. Writing becomes a welcome third party to self and vibration. Writing is a contemplation, like painting. Breathing slowly, steadily, remembering virtues, the arts can be preferable to pure meditation. The only difference is that something is there that one's will focuses on to fill with color. Please, let me write all day and commit no more than a paragraph.
Where the tide's too high the land will slide
Washes away the spoils of pride
I am Word and never glum
Since I fell under the sway of her pendulum
and who I am will shift