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  • My brain does not work like his brain.

    Or maybe that’s not fair to say. Because I know it can work that way, but I haven’t let it in a long time.

    Where he takes risks, writes what he feels, puts whatever he wants on the page, devil may care, I am constrained.

    And this is not to say that I don’t have it in me, the ability to freeform. To go and go and go just to see where it goes.

    It’s just that lately, I’ve been sticking to structures. Letting them nestle me close. Coo me to sleep. Hold my prose tight and my poetry tighter. My subjects don’t wander, starry-eyed, the way the way they once did. I give them theses to prove, punctuation to stumble upon. They once were lost, but now are found.

    But he makes just to make. And I love that. I remember that. Remember sitting in my bedroom as a teenager recording fourtrack demos. Knowing no one would ever hear them but me and maybe the person I was pining after at the time. Loving every second of it.

    See, lately, I’ve been blocked. Not with writing. I write like crazy lately. More writing than ever before. But writing songs, the thing that used to come so naturally to me. I can’t get anywhere with them. They dislike my rules and my vocation; the spark is gone.

    I don’t know him. Never met him. What I’ve learned about him comes to me through binary code. Sure, I’ve been to his country. Sure, we’ve listened to the same bands. Read the same books. But we’ve never shaken hands. The closeted we’ve come is a short, personable email exchange.

    But just from his words woven from the zeroes and ones across the sea, he reminds me that there’s a lot to be said for staying young, looking askance, shivering off the illusion that anything near perfection is even attainable and creating just to create.

    My brain does work like his brain. I just have to give it permission.

    Click to see how part of Stuart is Frederick.
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