How does my work define me?
What do you see when you read these words?
Is it a sage, or a fool?
A prophet, or a heretic?
A hero, or a villain?
How much of me is in here?
It can’t be all
There is more to me than that
Is there even any of me in here at all?
The words are mine, I wrote them
But is the sentiment?
Could it all be an invention
To impress, to cajole, to woo?
In all likelihood you will never know
We will never meet
And eventually the capricious nature of the blogosphere will separate us forever
So who I am really doesn’t matter
It is the words, the piece that matters
What you read from it, what you see in it
If it inspires or informs you
Regardless of what I intended
It is you dear reader, that gives it meaning