I have been asked to write a painting of myself, no more and no less.
Because it is me, I cannot write like me, because I do not see me in what I write. Therefore I write as something moves through me: I write in whims of centuries, of other moments, willful emotions blowing, and I write in pangs of doubt.
What is more me, more the make of myself, than reaching out beyond? I write to you in psalms, in voided prayers and wishes cracked like deserts. Because the parch and perilous absorb me, though my life is an everyday affair. I read in hopes to make.
And I write a bit like Whitman did, singing in the shower of himself. I hope only that it is not by myself that I sing.
And I scribe like Dryden once did, when I was a cold manipulator of words.
And I imagine like Bosch, darker than I am by nature.
And I regret all of it; I rejoice nonetheless.
Read, then, not because the psalms are all of me and from me and by me; perhaps they are a bit of you. And as the wayward world of life is a journey to and fro, so, too, are the psalms I write. The waves will crash and tides consume, but always fall away. These thoughts, these peaks of sea begin with what was, stitch through what is, and soar through what will be.
So I reckon: for the greater glory of what in all deserves its greatest glory. Pray that that is us, and we will know it well.