Reading John Muir’s My First Summer in the Sierra makes me wish that over the past few years, I had kept a more comprehensive journal detailing my own travels, along with my many encounters and experiences in Los Angeles; as opposed to what I fear might only amount to scattered, disconnected ramblings and loose sketches based on the things I saw.
Still, I can say that I wrote only what I felt I could write naturally at the time, whether it took the form of poetry, songwriting or just loosely-connected bits of prose written in a journal or posted publicly. I do feel in some way that these experiences over the past few years–along with those few that occurred during and prior to my years in Gainesville–will come forth and be revealed in my writing in the days to come, at the most appropriate time when they can be most effectively portrayed. The visions, after all, are alive and well within me.
As I write these words, I know too that this struggle of mine is likely no uncommon struggle for any person, young or old, in any creative field that has any sort of passion for living; a passion matched only by their unending need to convey as accurately as they can the beauty and sorrows and adventures they experience along the way. I anticipate that in many ways, it’s a struggle bound to continue throughout this life.