It is blowing up my dreams to make room for better ones. It is killing my idols, killing the Buddha on the road when I see him. It is seeking out the institutions in me, the bureaucracies, the barricades, and blowing them up.
It is finding a way to write that is not imitative, formulaic, or determined by allegiance and fealty. It is finding out what poetry is outside of the poetic.
I am lacking in imagination. The war against the unimaginative, can it be won with imaginary weapons?
The only war that matters is the war against my own ignorance. The odds do not look good.