Without writing I’m just another passing face in a mass of featureless grins, sneers, and groans, a cacophony of existence where being lost is expected. We all ride this boat, a mere skiff, we like to call life, crammed we grapple at each other, while the sea laps against our bow yearning to pull us to the underneath.
My writing gives me identity and through that purpose. It solidifies my path untread. With it, I know where to step, the dust-strewn dungeon scuffed or the snow-packed mountain trod. I know where I’m going even if it’s unclear how to get there, the map writes itself.
More so, writing allows me to hide in my grief, love, fantasies, and aspirations, all fabricated, but to the artist all real. While in the darkened room of my closet office, a single candle flickering, I can swim the seas of alien shores; I can kiss the ephemeral lips of death; I can allow her to embrace me in her lust for warmth; I can scorch the stars with the rage of a war wrought in the simple feud of a family’s lost child.
In my writing, I used to beseech upon others my hope for a better world. Now I beseech upon myself the vigors of a life exquisitely lived by seeing those creations, my words of our hopes, spark to life so others may live and see as I do. Till anon.