I scrawl words in crooked lines because it is the only way to give ear to the thoughts desperately pleading to be heard. As if by magic, they string together on their own in my head and it is all I can do to allow them to march out without being trampled in the process. I write because these thoughts would otherwise go unheard and be lost, collecting in dusty corners and clinging to the cobwebs strung between forgotten memories.The beat of my heart and the scratch of my pen echo the comforting irregularity of the drops on the roof. The thunder rumbles deep and the lighting flashes bright in between the drips. Tomorrow the skies will dawn clear and blue again, the thick air that now cleaves to my body will be replaced by a freshness. Along with the sunrise, my mind will waken clear, too. Right now, I write because it's all I can do. But tomorrow, I will leave my pen resting on the surface of the paper and I will collect more words for another rainy night. And so I will continue in that old pattern, collecting and emptying, over and over and over again until I run out of words or pages, whichever comes first.
This is what makes my clock tick, my blood pump, my brain function. This is why I write.
Why do you write?
ps I apologize for my silence in the bloggy world lately--I've been traveling this past week and I'm getting ready to go travel some more on monday. exciting times!