Social...

I debated about starting to blog again. I debate about lots of things. 
I have vitriol in my veins that seems to get more caustic by the day.
I write because I always have. No matter what, I always will. 
How is it that I only "see" writers who have time to write, have already broken past the tar sealed roof of corporate capitalist control, and landed, injured or not, into a nice desk chair, with time to write.
I refuse to believe that I'm the only person our there living inside writing everyday, but comes home physically exhausted from a low pay job. That I'm the only one that's one paycheck away from being homeless, but I think about Shakespeare analytically. I can't be the only worm trying to escape the apple.
No one told me which books to read, or how to start, or encouraged an education. In my demographic, college is a luxury, and you leave the fucking city to get it. 
I have found out all I have accumulated on my own, because no one was there to mentor. Not even the angst teenager way. No other writers escape the woodwork where I live. I don't live in a grocery desert. I live in a cultural desert, and the oasis that can be found is far, far away. In time, money, and achievement accumulated.

I can't be the only intellegent, poor, isolated writer...

Because now, finding other people like me, it's the last chance for sanctuary I have.