This is a Test.

I have been tested. I am being tested.
I guess we're all tested from time to time.
I have some art in me, I think. Some poetry.
Poets get no respect, yet I still think of myself as a poet.
For most of my adult life I've been cynical. Prove it, I said.
Now, I seem to be returning to my Romantic roots. I'm no better than those who cling to religion.
See, I grew up in the hippy era, but was soon thrust into the punk age. That's why I think of myself as belonging to the Blank Generation. Like Richard Hell, I can take it or leave each time.
I wanna make a film. Write a book. Paint. Make music. But, I'm stymied at present. I'm too concerned about paying my bills. Staying warm. Remaining alive.
The impetus eludes me.
It's embarrassing to record winter emotions.
Embarrassment.
Shame and resentment.
War and Peace.
Censorship and disease.
Sex and Death.
Gimme ART!
I can't help it. I need a raison d'etre. A purpose.
I'm only human. A mere mortal at large.
I feel the big wheel like never before. The spherical momentum.
These are just notes to say, "I was here! I was alive!"

I am alive...