Why do I write? Why simply to find my true self within my own personally created world of lies. I find it the only form of expression even I am unable to veil in a mask of false candor or twist in altered memories.
You see, I am a liar, a breeder and an advocate of chaos in that there is no peace in my heart that comes of wishful undeserved calm. There is beauty in tears, love in loss, and an endearment amongst passing words so why would I desire an end to necessary undesirables.
I write in admiration to those that have reared me into the inconsistent consistency that I’ve become; a pondering figment of soul searching existence as you see a life without goals is to only exist but a life of no dreams… isn’t. Writing is my way of strolling through my sea of nostalgia on a modest boat, bearing only a pen, paper, a tireless left hand and a pocket full of proverbial sunshine to find my way through this eternal ethereal ephemeral wet dream. And should I find myself lost upon my journey, discover I’ve misplaced my ambitions on a whimsically ill vice breath, I’d hope to be in the companionship of one who may remind me that with the closing of one door always leads to the vibrant waking of another waiting for the turn of a curious key.
I write to preserve my memories in that when my time should arrive, from within my ashes comes another bearing my mark, creating many more on travels of their own, tasting the fruit of lust, the happiness of achievement, the bitterness of sorrow, and all that even I have yet to uncover. I write to create a level of immortality many have met their ends to find. One to provide comfort to the lost should their way grow obscured and to lift the uncertain mist surrounding the minds of the next generation.
Writing has become a way of turning my weakness, faults and tragedies into etched reminders of my past, regrets, and indecisions, guiding me forward with that much more clarity.
But I’ve come to see that writing for me is not only a release but liberation from the puppeteers seeking to have their ways upon me. My fetish with cursive has allowed me to stroke my heart on to paper and taunt the prudish alphabet to surrendering to curvaceous sensual sin for there is no pleasures within the tame, generic and grey. For the briefest of moments, writing grants me the power of God within each narrative, poem, and cognitive free write. We all possess an art. Mine is the art of many strokes. We all have one, be it direct , evasive, bold, mild, vague, inviting, cold, or flirty. From the slants of “I”s or the seductive loops of “y”s, each letter is a subtle indication of your thoughts, feelings, hopes, dreams, vices, and virtues. It matters not whether one has a vast vocabulary or a clever wit that procures a talented writer. If one is unable to give their work life, the ability to draw a reader from their thoughts to your world, then it’s a barren venture. Art is the relation of the soul for one to find self reflection, taming of nostalgia, a gaze beyond what is real and unburdened truth of thyself and others. This is the reason for my rhyme. This is why I write.