do you know raspberries, those rubies that sat in the green of my grandfather’s garden?

This even extends into the spaces built by others, including mine: the personal words I write, or the daily excerpts I share from classic writers’ letters and diaries all pieced together in carefully edited fragments, arranged to appear organic.

Let me be clear: It is not my role, nor my desire to police where inspiration goes. In fact, I welcome it. I encourage it. I'd like the space I’ve built here to stir something in others: to spark thought, tenderness, creativity maybe even transformation. To know that something I wrote or shared reached someone, that alone makes it all meaningful and gives me purpose to continue. But there’s a deeper current running through all of this and it asks for reflection.

I want to make this even clearer: I have nothing against the use of new tools, especially those that widen our understanding or offer self-reflection as a source of learning and growth. When used consciously, they can deepen our reach, support what moves within us, and open doors. I believe they carry great potential, and I deeply respect that. But there is a line… a subtle but powerful one we must learn to recognize:

Where does what we share truly come from? Is it felt? Lived? Embodied? Or is it generated to perform those qualities? Is this art or is it erosion, slowly displacing the presence we claim to carry? If we don’t ask… we risk losing the very soul we hope to express.

And let me be more specific. I’m not referring to shared collaboration, guidance, or learning. I’m speaking of a pattern that’s becoming more visible: People turning to external tools to write and create for them and then sharing those words and creations as though they came from personal experience or introspection. There’s no process. No friction. No inner encounter. Just a typed command and a finished product presented as personal insight.

This isn’t deepening -- it’s detachment. It bypasses the process of shaping voice through presence, and erodes the power of inner authorship.

And I understand... we’re tired. The world is fast, and many of us are trying to keep up. But if aesthetics and consumerism become the measure of truth, we’ll forget how the raw voice of the soul even sounds.

This isn’t a critique. It’s a gentle return to what breathes. Because we can use means that support our process. We can be shaped by what helps us grow. But we cannot skip the part where we meet ourselves and still call it creation.

And so... Instead of calling it out, I’m calling something in.

If something stirs inside you, a half-formed phrase, a line that feels too vulnerable to post but too real to ignore and if it echoes the rhythm that flows here on my blog -- then send it to me. If it resonates with the current moving through my blog, I’ll shape it gently into a digital fragment, give it form, give it home and I’ll credit you with care. If anonymity feels easier, my anon inbox will be open again just for this occasion. It doesn’t need to sound smart, intellectual or profound or whatever… just true, from your bare soul. Let’s make this a stream of true presence, and encourage others to do the same.

Not replication, but revelation. Not perfection, but breathing, living pulse.Not noise, but a message: honest enough to land gently, but carve its way into memory.

Let us write and create from within -- not for the feed.

Something that will echo across time reaching generations to come.

take me back to that red mouth, that July 21st place.

Let me crawl through the patch. Let me be ten.