Sometime I write things with no meaning. That isn't to say that I don't think about it. They come and ask, "Is this a representation of death? It's so sad." I'm not sure. I'd just sat there with pen and paper, or fingers and keyboard, and wrote. I say yes. Then when people ask I tell them; "It's about death. Isn't it sad?"

Sometimes I write things with purpose. Every line and word is placed surgically, perhaps an idea, or a symbolic image. Rabbits and monkshood and acorns. Innocence, fertility, esoteric knowledge, warning, and immortality. I hide things so that people will uncover them and wonder, so that my words have layers of meaning, and so rhat each time it's read it's a different story.

Sometimes I want people to read what I write. I want them to be able to experience the fantastical things I see, feel, taste, touch, hear. I want them to know my reality, where I exist and breathe, truly so.

Sometimes I don't want them to. I want to keep myself hidden because my words are the tinder that exposes the rot and decay. My words are truth. They are lies I want to believe.

All of this is a lie. All of this is the truth. Nothing is ever as it seems.