I like to write more than I like to speak, although they are, in every way that matters, the same thing! I like to dangle in that thin line that separates the two and be able to say I prefer one and not the other. I like to skew that line a bit until I skew it all the way.
When writing, I feel the freedom to say all that I can, the pressure to have to say things the right way lessens a little and I revel in the world created by all the delayed words in my mind. When someone somewhere is reading between the lines of my work and misses the point, I won’t be present to have to explain what I meant, because sometimes when you can’t find the meaning in something, it is because it has no meaning!
Why then do I write? Hmm, good question! I ask myself the same every now and then when I’m not writing. Someone told me, through their writing, that if they write what they feel, it is to reduce their fever of feeling! I am not sure I have a reason for writing, maybe because I can write, that seems plausible enough, or it’s because I have nothing to say and consequently find refuge in meaningless words! However, every now and then, someone seems to relate to my nothingness, they seem to like the massage of the wind that in truth, is futile and heals no real wound!
Maybe I won’t answer that question today, maybe, for the sake of all who think I make sense, I will choose to write some more. I take comfort in knowing that I do not need to know because, in truth, no one knows anything. We are all on this road that leads to nowhere and everywhere, travelling with nothing but our shadow, leaving empty pieces of our souls’ footprints tattooed on the path we choose to travel and hoping that along the way, we will find our true kin.