Here I sit. I sit and I write. I write non-fiction, creative non-fiction (for now).

Does it make much of a difference? Not the way I’d hoped.

I sit here and try my best to write engaging material. To put a stream of conscious on the page. I think it’s pretty good. But is it to you? I guess not so much.

At what point do I quit? Do I stop writing. I don’t think I ever will. This gives me life. I write in the moment and I can find that I speak truth as it relates to me. And you can dig it or not. You can ignore me or give me the time of day. It doesn’t matter. I love to write. It’s fun. It gives me purpose. Someone who’s mentally handicapped. Can’t work a regular job. And here I am. Doing what I do best. Express myself. Get it out on the page. Maybe this will evolve into something else. Level up to the next point. The point I want to be at.

It doesn’t matter, sadly, what you think. It just doesn’t, because if it did, I’d have given up by now. I’d have let your disgust for me stop me from doing this. But I won’t let that stop me from what I want to share. I will continue to put forth the ideas and imaginary concepts that can work for people. If we do this, we might get this. Try it. Or don’t. But I will do it. Because I’m learning and growing. And finding my way.

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