I think my writing and attitudes may paint me as a broken person. And truth to tell I am. Broken by a death that shattered me to peices. There was a time that I submerged myself in pain and pleasure hoping to blot out her memory. When that failed, I closed all doors to emotion and lived in the logic and darker things that no door could hold. That numbness tainted everything I did, but in the end it allowed me to heal enough that I could come out of that remorseless light. The hole that had cored me through now had a bottom. And I began to fill it with witnessed beauty, then back to the poetry of my youth, thence to writing songs. And finally to this blog. And every day I fill up the hole with a little more creation. And everyday the remorse and regret burn out the hole. But some ash is left; And little by little the hole is filling. In honesty, I am afraid. I’ve been broken for so long now that I can no longer remember what is was like to be whole, if I ever was.