I went from a desolate state, from sitting in a candle lit room with a Corona-matic 2000 and two ribbons of empty ink cartridge. Black typing ink smeared across my simply simplistic wooden desk, four ill-matched legs a drawer with a quality next best to fragmentary. But i still sat there in the corner of my empty room with the cure playing sounds of destain. writing for the sake of ‘viva voce’ just like my heros….something some people see as so properly elementary but i saw it as a means of existence. I think when you are voicing the opinions of your hero's people see you as keen and ingenious when you hear that day after day you believe it. But i think it really just makes you feel empty. Your lively discussions and the aristocratic mentality you have for yourself makes you almost hard to deal with...i became impertinent…

Nights grew long for me. Sights and sounds were drowned by the 56 pound shutter key of my machine, sleep was forgotten and i grew weary. But all of the writing i did, poetry,essays,music reviews,letters to dead and lively poets...Anything i could think of i wrote down….This essay was suppose to be about one significant moment, one point in time where we felt as if our lives were of the greatest importance and nobody else around us could feel what we felt...This is my life however and my version of such a broad and uneasy topic, this is a span of six months where death breathed down my neck and i lived life as if i was undoubtedly dying…

I wrote as if everything i said would go down in the annals of history...I guess i am too young to know...But at this time i wrote and i kept a slalom mentality that i was not good enough to be noticed by the world because nobody in my circle of life noticed me how could anybody else? But i read to two people and breathed my words of intolerance and they pushed me into falling in love with the idea of loving yourself...The late nights they stayed up to listen to me brood and the day after day, page upon page of thoughts and ideas that they listened too. They gave me the motivation to not write for a closed door and burning flame but write for the General Public.
The day i met them my first piece that barely rhymed but seemed to hold meaning to me i fell in love with the feeling of appreciation and praise for living out a dream….

Two long years later i sat on the bottom floor at a meek little desk under the staircase writing furiously over things that won't matter to me in 30 years time but seemed so critical then...But i was taken by work and couldn't see past the end of my tea, its colour was cloudy. but across the hard blood colour of the concrete up to the stool across from mine it was my person….And they sat down with the strange logic that i needed to get some clarity and they held it in there eyes. I thanked them for all they've done...The paramount of my life was finding love and passion in my clumsiest lines…

Tears welled in my fall spawn eyes and i slid the submission page of a review across the table to them...read the final unheeded stanza...The last one that would go unnoticed and let put all my force into smashing the send button...

The best thing anyone could have done for me was listen when i needed them to listen. The beauty in hearing people's voice the feeling evoked by your own blood and tears that go into every line and word is better than life. The pleasure and passion of sharing what you love with the people you love and finally gaining the acceptance of people through the things you love to do is truly beautiful...So i thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me the courage to get published and find the time to love myself...Thank you

With love,
Sebastian S.  (speedway)