I guess if I'm being talked about I must really still exist, eh? Strange. I have no social context, no framework within which to be concrete, have effect, etc...
and making one that doesn't betray what I am is an ever-slipping puzzle. Just as pieces finally fit, the whole flux moves and I start again.
If I could build a place for writers to explore the limits of subjective reality, and make their work concrete for the world - a place for the most amazing of humans to become what they can be instead of being chewed up and normalised into submission to mediocrity and failure... then maybe I would have a place to belong and a reason to exist?
Not just writers - thinkers, heretics, theorists, explorers and pioneers, future-builders ....
The real me is screaming at the top of my lungs but no one hears.