Thus quoth the scribe!!

I thought about writing today. Not the verb. The noun. Writing. But writing is so innately human, that it does not stand alone in my mind. When I think about writing, I think about people. And when I think about writing, I think about me. Is this going to be another stupid post? I should hope not. But I am going to string together a bunch of adjectives and metaphors and hope I get some closure. I write because I love the language. I write in stead of making talk. I write for attention, to be more than who I am, and to stretch the space-time continuum of my written work. I write to separate the noun from the verb.

Writing is cathartic for me; at times effortless, at times a chore that I embark upon just to feel the endorphins flowing again. And writing is important to my identity. I cannot look on a future without it. My wrists have become precious; my fingers, cherished. I have struggled to fathom my fascination with semantics and syntax. And it seems to be a common search among writers. I want my words to do everything I cannot do. Paint pictures across the sky in rays of brilliant contrails. Scratch dark grottos in dim forests. Splash whirlpools and whitecaps through a reader's fleeting attention span. Etch fiery whispers that linger in the dark. I do not know why I am so fascinated by thought and word. Shaping ideas, shading dreams, twisting a seeming into surety; its all possible with a word or phrase laid down at the fulcrum of events. The birth of the perfect line is a work of beauty and pain. I have seen children stringing together bead necklaces for each other. They pick and choose colors and shapes, look for continuity and aesthetic and thread a thin string through minuscule holes that defy patience until they are satisfied with the heft of their creation. The look [when they whirl it in the sunlight, or give it to a friend, or feel it lie on their neck] is the look I want on my face when I see my writing.