Search though I have thousands of times, (well, maybe hundreds of times), through bookcases, boxes, and bins, those former works staunchly refuse to show themselves. Oh what to do...
Oddly, this has encouraged and inspired to write more pieces, more frequently, and to finally present them in book form. After all, how can I lose these poems now that they are in so many other hands?
But I do so miss my earlier work, especially when vague vignettes of their phrases and feelings, bubble up to the surface in my mind, yet prove too intangible to grasp at before they float who knows where.
And so, Echoes and Echoes ll were born out of loss, which is actually rather fitting for poetry. I find this moderately gratifying, in as much as those missing works have not been entirely wasted after all.
The notion of succumbing to a hypnotist's talents in order to resurrect that which is lying dormant in my memory has intrigued me, to be sure, but I prefer to hope in actually finding my old poems.
For the time being, I am writing like never before regarding both volume and content. My muse is all the more active, and I have finally learned not to ever put her off when she speaks. That's a win!
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