In my early twenties I forgot what poetry was, I even forgot that I existed, like a child I lived from day to day without ever considering why words were so important, why language scultpted who I was and what I was to become, and how this seemingly inevitable.transition from one point in time to the next was indebted to the fundamental ability for the human mind to come accross language and have the capacity to understand it. Purpose spings to mind when considering such universal themes, yet doubt allows us to choose, the choices, unfortunatley are beyond our control, a little like poetry.  How hard should we work to craft an idea into an acceptable form. Jack Kerouac said a good poem needs no reworking. I agree to some extent, some of my own poems have sprung into existence from a few minutes of wonderful inspiration, yet I have also crafted villanelles over days and weeks and feel that they needed that kind of patience. There is no true path to being a poet, It feels more like a bodily function than a choice. I write in the same way I need to piss. The point I'm trying to make is this.  I used to write without thinking about writing. I used to think without the weight of thought interfering with its purpose, I didn't care too much, so I was free to write what I felt, not what I thought people might like to read. I'd like to feel like that again.