I write to get the buzzing out of my head and stored somewhere other than my body. A tidy white place.
I write as a love letter to the spirits and souls whose connection(s) I crave; both known and unknown.
I write to have revelations noted. Usually, when I sit down to write, these revelations are long gone. So I write to dig them up and bring them to the foreground of consciousness.
I write because words are magic; man made magic. Thoughts that are given construct, stories that become guides, warnings, and dear friends.
I write to feel happiness in my stomach and in my eyes.
I write because there are things in my darkness that I want to poke and prod and shine light upon. Granted, it’s usually with shaky hands that I shine the flashlight on my dormant thoughts, but writing enables me to gradually see what lurks in my corners and crevices, and then ultimately, accept those notions or disregard them. Unrealized thoughts lingering in dark corners only decay; bring them to the light, and know you as you truly are and not as you perceive yourself to be.
I write to quiet all that I crave that is currently out of my grasp.
I write as a plan. To plan exactly how to acquire all that I crave that is currently out of my grasp.
I write because a little voice inside me says that I’m not bad at writing. A louder voice says I’m not exactly good at it, but that smaller voice is still there. So, I just say “whatever” to that louder rude voice. Ain’t nobody got time for rude voices. Write.
I write to feel sadness down to my bones. To feel my bones ache with a sorrow and stillness that is gently and deeply transformative. An acute stillness that can only be described as a black and warm loneliness. However, in that loneliness, I can clearly see the stars and my place among them.
I write because I can’t play music. Words that come from my soul and consciousness are the music I make. They always have been.