The struggle swallows me. Still, I endeavor the grips of trying. The lost solitudes of denying; it saddens me, depresses me, wears me down, tears me apart. I am denied the things provided others whom create; the resources, the connections, the pathways to recognition-the success.

Without such elements from where comes acknowledgement. I love my craft, the things that I do; true, it pays me nothing. The joy of creation embraces me, fills me, feeds the hunger inside my penniless pockets. Perhaps, joy is not enough. In the world of a name, I have none; I am poor, an unknown, a nobody. Still, I try. (I try.) But without a moniker, a beacon to cast an alluring light upon my skills who am I, and what would I be? What could I become?

Without acknowledgement creativity is difficult. Could the diamond exist without coal and years of extreme pressure; the winds without angelic inspiration; the world without a place to put it?

At times and no matter my love of writing, expressing, thinking, even the love is lost. The breath that I breathe suffers to live inside me. How lives the craft inside such emptiness? Without, (without) someone to tell me, to feel me, to hold me inside his, or, her thinking, how then does my thinking, my feelings inspire me?

I linger: the teetering rock pressing the void; a void of endless waiting, wondering, never knowing the time of its end. I am the dangling participle, incompleted in thought and deed; the feather aimlessly floating without a place to settle. I drift upon wistful winds, the flight is endlessly wasteful.

I love writing: it provides me a vehicle of expression, happiness; offers me a voice within a maze of tunnels and labyrinths, skyrocketing downward (“downward”) into a world of words; mysteries that could never surface without identities.

Without a name and regardless of my love of the craft, how then do I identify it; and what (“what?”) do I call it?

Copyright (c) 2015 Delbert H. Rhodes