One question…

Why write?

A tiny question, answerable with many replies.  Even a question can answer back.  Why not?  But that’s the shrugging cop out answer.  As for my response, I have to write.  I don’t feel sane when I don’t.  The world turns glitchy, and the colors go dull.  When I don’t have the time or the energy or the mental wherewithal to string a sentence together, the lack of words leaves me empty. In contrast, tossing words onto a blank page fills up a sort of internal chasm.  It brings the crazy needle out of the red.  Sometimes, it doesn’t matter what I write to pacify the monsters.  Other days, specific words are necessary.  When the words prove elusive, things seem sideways.  Having spent the last two and a half days trying to pry necessary text from my skull and coming up with nothing but sketches and skeletons that together make no more sense than a feuding polka band on safari, I seem to have dried up and found a place where the writing has made me crazier than the days where the muse refuses to cooperate.  Maybe it’s the cluttered desk distracting me.  Or perhaps the stray weeds in the yard are growing at such an alarming rate that their movement is diverting my attention.  Or maybe the words I’m trying to write need a voice instead of a scrawled on page.  But for the moment, I’m dropping the pencil.  I’m going to pull some weeds, get some blisters, clear my head, and just be.

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