Esoteric he said.

I've been informed that my blogging becomes esoteric at times. I don't really know what that means. It's a word I've heard thrown around, I've avoided it's use because I don't fully understand it. It seems like it's one of those words that really can only be properly used by a select group of people with more knowledge of such things than myself.

I think perhaps that at times my writing can be a little abstruse, maybe inane, well mostly inane, but I don't know about esoteric. So what about my blogging becomes a little hard to easily grasp, a little one offish? I don't know.

I think perhaps as one ponders the mysteries of decay angst gains direction. What really are the choices. What do we do with that angst? Do we repackage it in a facade of contentment? And so I search, and I study, and I write. And writing like all art comes from thought and feeling. Anger, frustration, desire and ideas, sometimes having nothing to do with one another

Were I skilled perhaps each word like an artists brush stroke would be precise. But as I deal with malformed imperfection tubes are squeezed, canvas is blotted and paint pushed this way and that as I try and transfer this feeling to media. But truth be told, the clearer the picture, the less truthful the translation.

And so I sit, putting together a life with pieces from discarded puzzles. There is much to consider, mostly muddled, mostly thoughts smashed together trying to fit together what wasn't meant to fit. And the art of it all should be obscure, abstruse and maybe esoteric if it is to be truthful.