'One who tells the truth will get driven out of nine villages.'

--Turkish proverb of the day.
This has no relevance what so ever to the following blog, it simply is, as are many things, and it sounds funny in English.
This notion of 'is' suddenly, and without warning, discovers to mine innner eye, someting to mull over, because I write deeply meaningful verse or prose about my as yet deeply meaningless existence.
Are. That seems to be much of my predicament. To be. Period. Like this --> . The human condition is that man is never pleased with his state in life. The truth is that each and every one of us has a little bit of King Haggard in us. And every so often this realisation of not being in the right place, surfaces in my murky, black pool of the concious and subconcious. Basically, in lay-man's terms, I'm finding my life to be increasingly inadequate. I'm not actively living it, I'm passively living it. I'm a passive liver who has let the chords of priority slip, and that wild beast has gone a rampaging every which way. I've also got a pink rubber band wound arround my thumb.

Conclusion: It is absolutely vital that I start writing again. And when my debts are cleared and I'm somewhat more stable, financially, I must only work part time, so that by the end of this year we will at least have an agent.