[David Sylvian, Brilliant Trees]
Self-serving, this exercise in writing – as it always has been, of course, since the first days of secreting away my hesitant teenage scribbles about classes and desires and despair and unbridled dreams that were based in the barest understanding of what I truly wanted. I understand that, and although I welcome my friends and others to read my words and share their comments, I write for my own reasons, first and foremost.
And what are those reasons? Self-exploration, transcribing my personal history, spilling the untidy contents of my mind… a small light in the darkness, a soft call into silence, a hand reaching out to say, “Here I am. Here, this is me.”
Like a self-portrait, it is an indulgence that might look egotistical from the outside – and perhaps it is. But I tell you this: I learn about me from every photo I take of myself. I learn from every note I transcribe from the unruly thoughts that tumble through my brain. And yes, I do call out to you… Here I am. Here. This is me.