I write. Sometimes beautiful things, words placed so evidently eloquently, whispering sweet nothings in your mind; in my voice. Words that barely convey the lyrics in my heart but filtered as they are through two they become one with a love that is all-encompassing and infinite and yet somehow still contained by this finite, earthly shell.

I write. Sometimes with a quickening sadness; bitter experience flowing down the page like water, like an avalanche of pain running down a mountain: each successive word becoming a phrase to frame a refrain of sanity-saving verses; to flush out of hiding those (personal) demons that hunt for my soul in the dark recesses of my mind.

I write. I write words that make emotions apparent, transparent, so very clear and open. Sometimes I find redemption in words, sometimes I find that I atone for every action wrought from anger or pain that I’ve ever thought of or placed upon this world.

I write. I write because I enjoy placing words in front, in back, around and inside of other words to form ideas; to hopefully make some sense of me. Conceptually I enjoy the exercise of sentences, paragraphs and sections; chapters, books, chronicles; series becoming stories becoming (his)story.

I write. Not only do I write because I love to play with language(s): I write because inside of me is a driving force, a primal need; something shimmering-stirring (is it darkness or is it light) that aches to break free the bonds of my mind to speak to the world.

I write. I write, simply because I must.

Keep it real kids,
❤ ry

  1. It is everything.

    Darkness, light, love, pain, anger, fears, dreams…
    It’s the voice of your soul

    demanding to be heard.

    (Love this)

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