Back to ‘Gone’

I wrote a poem once called “Gone Again.” I will not bore you with the details, that seems hardly fair. I will, however, content myself with talking a little about the episode in question. That is, the writing of the thing.

Yes, this is an entry, a diarist’s claim, and not, in fact, a story. This will be my second of these, probably though, none of you will realize. This, of course, assuming that I still have those who read. Now, “Gone Again.”

I wrote this poem before I was a writer. This I find rather funny. The piece is anything but insightful, and really offers far less than it should. The question then becomes, why am I telling of it? Well, I guess because there is purity to it, a beauty that can only lie in the undetermined. That’s why.

I think to be a writer, to call yourself one anyway, means very much and very little all at once. I think that to be a writer one must write, yes, but write something. I had a teacher once, the best there could have been, who loathed my vagueness. When I wrote, he would push and push for the details, of which I skimped upon. And then, one day, I wrote what he had wanted me to write- the whole story. Once I did, I saw something new, a completion of unparalleled satisfaction. I bring this up for two reasons:

1. Details mean everything.
2. At times, I still to this day believe, vagueness is not only acceptable but also necessary.

The second point is in relation to what I said earlier about being a writer. To write something is a vague statement, but I feel it conveys precisely what it needs to. To write, to be a writer, one must communicate through the written word. Simplicity is the culprit in this definition, I know. But past simplicity is complexity. It’s a backward concept. Truly it is.

The reason I brought up my old poem, my “Gone Again,” is because I wrote the thing without giving it a second thought. And now I think about it often. To me it represents an emotion that refused to practice. It concerns a man and a woman, and what else is there to know? But, to me, well, I see everything inside of it.

Today I write to you all as I am. Today I am not a killer, not a madman, not a jade stone. I am but myself. I am just, plainly and simply, a writer. I do not ask for much more.

A guy