I've always enjoyed writing and for the most part, like other writers I know, the purpose of writing was to share. The story might be beautiful, tragic, terrifying, or informative but the real goal was to share the wonder of it, the wonder of creation.
“Meditations on Violence” was different. In a single year, many, many things had happened. Too close to some ugly cases, caught between what I knew and what the media was presenting. The delivery of a baby addicted to crack and heroin. A crushed face and an empty skull and plumber's crack in death on a windy, cloudy day. Looking over sights and pulling the trigger and suddenly seeing a volcano of blood and meat erupting... and there was no one, really, to talk to about it.
I do have a good support network, people who love me and would listen, but they didn't really understand. The hardest were the martial artists. Most of my friends for most of my life have been involved in martial arts. Judo and jujutsu did much to form who I am. But for the first time I was seeing them as people who played at violence as a hobby and had never heard the screams or felt the bones break.
I felt very tired and very alone.
Meditations was never meant to be shared. Like the early entries on the blog, it was just an attempt to get things out of my head, to put them down on paper so that someone else could poke at them for a while. It is an attempt to take some memories that no one should have and shape something useful out of the sewage of a soul.



