If wine is life, and 180, then I’m already a winemaker. Not universally peaced by this recipe. So changes are to be made. And I’m tired of always stating that, making some declaration, affirmation in an entry. MY blend will result the way I wish. No alternatives, other options. I’m aging before my eyes notice, so only actions, from here. Only direct contact with my tapestry, my varietals. Race in less than 48 hrs. Should I be doing this, running when I should be writing? What will this race do for me. And more importantly, how will it help my pages. Forgive my rattles, hisses, this evening, reader. I’m indeed agitated, an angry winemaker before his instruments, barrels.
How did I find Self in this stance? Have I set skewed strategies in amalgamating, this blend? Hope not. And if I have, I must be consistent with repair. Not even in a mood to push these dull keys. The beats speaking through these small speakers, more placid than this pained poet. But maybe this uneasiness proves profitable for these wine pages. All the writing in “the industry” is jubilant journalism, or medicinal reporting. It has no soul; no Human movement. We, from Literary leaps, write for ourSelves, hope to share in betterment of others. Or at least I do. And if I’m not curing others, I’m healing my heliocentricity, more crucially. For this prose, poetry.
Putting mySelf in my Wine Bar, to end this mood lull. Too old to be this way, like a sentimentally vacillating teen. Picking a predisposition, then following with. My apologies, reader, for these sentences. This, ALL, soon remolds, refolds. Vowing this veracity, for the blend’s safety, security. Tomorrow, no mocha. No money for such. Yet another jeremiad from this bottle journalist. Where’s my solace, care-package? Wallowing won’t help. Need to write my way through, out of this, as I advised students.
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