Who is a poet? Who is a writer? Is it the one who composes poems, or writes some article, treatise or story; or is it the one with a message and an intent? I for one am still trying to figure it all out. Much like the exhausted ideals of ancientry: peace, freedom, humanity within the overt errors of universal society’s body politic, to mention a few; finding one’s purpose on earth is contingent upon the slow yet maddening assurance of the odious process of travails in the face of growth and Perishability. A soul must find itself, yet in so doing, it might stumble onto more than this; It might find itself a gifted victim of a greater course of events; a prisoner of talent whose mission, bequeathed down the astral funnel from the firmaments (wherever it might be), once discovered descries the entrance of light eternal within and without its immediate space, to lighten the burdens attendant upon the fellowship of mankind.
The question of who a writer is, or generally a savant of the arts in a manner of speaking, could never furnish sufficing insight without foremost satisfying the bold apostrophe which places de facto an emphasis on the being in the fellowship of mankind in every time and at all times. A writer, or Conscience in a broad sense as a spiritual element (an item; a force of nature in any event at the very least) could either be one of ordinary pedigree, or an extraordinary one who takes up the task of evaluating rubrics of divine design in the interest of human progress. Needless to say, there will always be charlatans in every craft, a better human being if need be may well be a better writer to whatever extent as far as better goes.
At the fated outset of any journey, it is the beginning -that important composite of ingredients -which gives rise to an almost impregnable lattice of beliefs. Then again to be excellent, is not the same as to be excellence. While both suggest a quality all too coveted, one may be achieved and the other ascribed through no particular grand plan of the mastermind. A lie told often might come to pose for truth. Not seldom from a misleading reception by an uninformed audience, a doomed sequence of events is launched into effect. In the human circumference where true talent -of myriad nomenclatures -is an unassuming lamb, the usurper is an outcast: a breathing, albeit suffocating contradiction. If sheer pride (a petty insecurity ensuing from a toxic cocktail of self-aggrandizement, -importance, and -loathing), ever catches on to the enormity of its naïveté; the depth of its imposed reductions, it might attain to betterment.
A writer is a human being in touch with the facets (both spikes and holes) of their humanity. A poet doubly so. The fact of a message is almost a diluted fait accompli. There is always a message but whether it is one for the long haul, or a temporary cast rests in the content and character of the messenger.