Working with my dad involves me making tea and reading Julio Cortazar while he puts a kitchen together. I’m probably not the son he really wanted.

To place love as the conflicting opposite to war is not entirely correct; It is all a matter of scale. War functions with rhetoric and belief, as our relations do, but in its objectives can crush entire states and histories in moving toward an aim. Love can destroy only two; it has a unique and personal method which exists within this interaction only, of which we can assume and speculate, but never truly understand. Do not believe that these casualties are minor or irrelevant, simply because love is not open for the discussions of newspapers. When a man fails in what is basic to him, when love fails, he is then equipped to conduct war.

Our cities are greatest at night; without daylight they still hold some basic mystery.

Children are the great intellectuals of our time. They will query any subject inexhaustibly, they never conclude what our mature selves have accepted to be simply the way of things. They are possessed by imagination and breathe their fantasies into each aspect of their daily proceedings. In their visions of a future they are bright and perfected, they set themselves to become things impossible or brilliant. They have not looked over the surface of the earth with an analytic eye, they probe each of its corners for light and colour and sensation. They are true geniuses. We should each see our childhood possibility become our present selves.

Our recollections are composed of first events, we award significance to each, (kiss, sex, love, the physical and the non-physical), and with them I maintain the moments I was given truth in poetry, and set my hands toward becoming a poet. (Prufrock sat at my table and composed his pipe; His hands were quick and nervous and his stern eye addressed the room with unresolved inquieries, aimed at all things at once; Following his visitation, she mused over my infant works and occasionally struck a ‘Yes, you’re right, it is in fact, you must, you should focus…’, and breathed potential over the unordered attempts in a motion which has carried me to now).

Each of our theories, our creative elements, our imaginings, are flawed in their lack of action. An object will not bear your vision if it is made by another’s hand.

Came up with an idea to develop the opening section below, which I wrote quickly in a creative writing seminar. Worked on it today and I’m around halfway through, the finished piece will provisionally be 1,000 to 1,200 words so that I can include it in my portfolio, but I may expand it at another time. Hopefully it will be something anyone who reads my posts regularly (for which I’m very grateful) will find slightly different to my other prose, and an overall better type of story. I hope to have it with you in the next couple of days :)

My poetry consists of portraying several distinct and complex individuals, all of whom are me.

My days pass with an established order; I read incessantly, write compulsively, and occasionally attempt to change the lives of others.