Reminscing on writing is a certain kind of awkward enthrallment: often times, we forget, or simply cannot place ourselves in, that state here before conjured in order to draw upon such knowledge; a once in a place kind of a place -- get there, be there, leave there, then continue on. This makes the act of retrospective both peculiar and detached, like a painter who creates his piece under the sheer intoxication of joyousness -- or alcohol, I suppose. All is the same. Substance is substance, no matter if joy or drunkeness. We can be drunk with joy, after all. But can we not also be joyous from drunk ? Well, of course, my good lad
So to continue forward one must make a conceited effort not to look back. Or at the very least, not to dwell on those pre-experienced states that brought upon the manifestation of pieces hither. No use, no point, really. Just a way of bloating that upper-mind, that higher ego. Why bother ? Just write now right now right then left now. A certain expectation -- a certain brotherly bond. Us writers will stand together, quill in keystroke, pen on keyboard, pad on metallic paper. And stand up for all others who don't dare speak of such godly matters -- delirious states.
For it takes a keen sense of confidence to stand up to the face of god and shout: I am here and I am with you.