I never plan on what I write. This is one of those "into the moment" type of things. . . banged it out in 20min but thought if you would care read it why not freely give it to an audience. I'm always experimenting with language because language is fascinating to me. Believe it or not - my entire thought process was to capture something that would make the reader not only think - but think emotionally. (Maybe even a tear shed. . .)
It is a challenge to write - but even more curious is the process I go through to get there. I feel at peace with my style and found the voice I use. It is an exercise in romanticism with a Canadian flare, I would only imagine.
The flight of my imagination has taken hold of me. This is my tribute to the readers.
This entry just happened because I came across a skunk dead on the road today. I felt hopeless inside. I felt for the animal even though the spark had clearly met its end and left its body. I just saw the carcass and it made me revolt, so I know it is a sign that makes me express it creatively as I try to. My attempt may be futile - but it is inspired nonetheless.
To be a writer - you MUST be your own worst critic, because you cannot imagine who your audience IS or MAY NOT BE - ever. If you start to write as a creative endeavor - the practice is that you write and write and write, until it becomes you. You are your own critic because you don't wait nor depend on getting rich quick by someone else "DISCOVERING YOU." That is all such total corporate bullshit.
I can write. That's all I know.
I write as though anonymously thinking no one will ever be reading what I have to say, but even if they do or they don't - the end result in my mind is the same. That is my secret.
Marco ~
Monday, April 28, 2025
Titled: The skunk
When I was ten.
I met a skunk.
This animal I connected with.
The skunk has since died.
I saw that same skunk today, again.
Saw the skunk lay dead on the road.
Splattered road kill.
And all that I could think.
Was how sad I was.
It made me sad to see my friend there on the road.
With the foul odor. . . emanating.
This unmistakable odor filled the air across that murder scene.
And as I drove by to see my friend, the dead animal . . .
spoke nothing. Never did anything to deserve this fate.
And as I reminisce. . .
like a magic bullet - invisible only to those who could not truly see.
I wish that they could have my special ability -
to see my skunk friend,
having given me the keys to life.
A life that I should feel empowered by my own volition.
My volition to make others see and not be seen. Is such a lie -
not the same rules followed by that game of hide-and-seek children play?
I find myself so utterly complete, now.
That the skunk is spreading that awful aroma to remind us how shallow we are.
The skunk was probably just trying to find its way to nowhere.
Because that is nature's destination - the place that has no real name
Something like the mother's womb. (The skunk never a name was given.)
But this game shows us how to defeat ourselves.
The hide-and-seek we look to find our way home without knowing,
where or how the direction takes us,
because that cold cold air passage that travels throughout time.
Is it real or what is not.
We find our way. . . out to the middle of nowhere.
To find the mother's womb.
Even that skunk had a name.
I just forgot to name it.
(end.)
Marco Almeida © 2025
-The Peg
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