I wish Medium gave me the ability to write my thanks on pages of gold, talking about the love and appreciation I have for every one of you.I’ve still not got used to the idea that the things I write down capture the hearts or the imagination of others.
Some days I wake up and I feel sensitive to everything; strong and weak at the same time. I’m not a fledgling, I’m a grown man with all a grown man’s faults. Having people connect with me through my words is an unbelievably touching and humbling thing. I write for me, and I write from an aged romantic perspective. I honestly do. I’m not a man writing for profit, I’m a man writing for the joy of writing, the connection it offers me, and the harmonious world of we Hoggs! Are we all smoking dope!
Sometimes, I don’t know if I’m a child, a poet, or a gypsy on a road that has a certainty to end, but I do know where it feels like home. Yes, I come here to help myself to a spoonful of your affection. Like a child coming home to the smell of bread in the oven.
I don’t want you to imagine my thankfulness. I want you to feel it. If all my life were as certain and direct as the path you’ve taken me down with your willingness to spend a moment out of your day with me, there never would have been doubt in my life, but then I might not have arrived here. Here — that certain home for me, a safe place; a place to be open, where words can be displayed for their honesty.I
I carry the affections of you all inside me. Your comments have often reduced me to a sniveling mess.
I love your friendship, not to feel a grandness in my work, not because it is faultless, but because every bit of it is faulty, and still you give me that minute.
You know who you are, but more importantly, I know who you are.Thank you seems so little.