Fragility?

This stupid little blog of mine is too important to me; I won't let it die of neglect.

That's not to say I won't neglect it. But not forever, not for so long that it will wither and degrade into dust and grease and pain that didn't see the light of day. I will continue to embarrass it with words that have no real merit, save that they come from an old and fragile heart.

And here is my fragility for today. I'm feeling abandoned by people who never even knew me. The poets who could have taught me, the writers of narrative who could have shared their skills with me, or at least been gentle with me as they openly acknowledged that I have no skills to share and no emotions that haven't already been explored by writers who not only were closer to them, but who felt them in a visceral way that sometimes evades me. This is my fragility. The fragility of an aging geezer who remembers listening to writers who had something to say, something bold and emotional. I couldn't simply cry and let my tears fall as the may!

I'm not a writer. Never have been. I've wished I were a writer, someone who could translate into pen and paper or even computer screen. That's the way it was. And it's becoming the same.