It could be the OCD in me. But there is something soothing about seeing a blank page or a blank screen and then filling it with words. And the words form sentences. The sentences form paragraphs. The paragraphs and singular statements form a life of work.
There is comfort in the fact that I can fill something with the motions of my mind.
There’s too much truth in the fact that not everything I write is worth reading.
And there is some truth in the fact that I am pleased with some things I write.
Writing is not something I love to do. It is something I love about me.
Writing takes a jumbled thought and puts it in order. Or puts it in my eyes so I can dissect it and re-enter it in to my thoughts in different form.
Writing takes a memory and makes it permanent for the time I can no longer recall. Or the time I am no longer here to recall.
I can take an absurd thought that sparks hope or ideas and put it to paper and I can see how truly absurd it is. Or how truly inspired I feel.
Writing leaves behind a part of me.
Writing steals something of me.
Writing completes a part of me.
Writing creates a part of me.
Writing is a physical act. A physically mental act. It is an action.
Writing is my action.
Where you imagine blood running through your veins I know words run through mine. Cursive, printed, bold, italic, whisper soft, tiny squared writing.
Writing gives me an outlet that words and running could never afford me.
My written word is proof of life.