Reflections

In the past, I used to write poems, chiefly inspired by ecstatic moments.  Life produced that kind of ecstasy, whether through happy or sad moments, and I utilized whatever intense feeling I had to put that into writing.  I have always depended on the intensity of a given moment to produce a piece of writing, deactivating, so to speak, that faculty of the brain which uses logic to understand life.   The outcome was always a set of contradictions ultimately resulting in an inspiring image.  It is through these contradictions that I was able to create a reality in which I lived for years.  I have always wondered if by creating one’s reality one creates one’s own consciousness.   At that time, the only voice to which I listened was that of my inner self, which I made the center of the universe.   It was, so to speak, a naked soul before my eyes.   It was the essence of who I am.   

Writing, in this sense, is a tool to better understand who you are.  But as the level of consciousness rises, the level of ecstasy goes down, and one has to look for other sources of inspiration.  It is indeed a hard experience.  So who should I blame for the loss of the muses, and should I search for the same muses that once inspired my works or look for new ones?  It is a complete blackout, of which I am struggling to get out.  

I think the question that I need to answer in order to resume writing is why I write.  Do I write to enlighten myself or others?  Do I write only because I have the desire to write?   

I once wrote things I believed were great because I believed that what I wrote was essential to the enlightenment of both myself and others.   And if I want to resume writing, I need to have the same faith I once had in what I wrote, and I need to see that what I write matters in this world.