The problem with this entire urge right here is that I really don’t want to spill anything, I don’t want to say anything, but I need to write.
I need to write because writing confirms and forgives, writing attests to a truth and does not shame a lie. Writing helps a thought out the door and into the world to find itself bare and made of dust. Writing helps thoughts come to life and does not judge what gets to live and what cannot see the light.
Some thoughts dwell in the darker rooms, and once a light is flashed through, they dissipate into emotional tiredness. You cannot understand what was holding you down so heavy, but you know something was lurking there by the ache in your back.
The problem is that when a person writes, something must be said, and lies although end up being written, a general tone within the text undermines them. The reader can tell: This is a truth, this is most definitely a lie. Sometimes the reader can detect the lie that the writer has not yet uncovered. The dance is spellbinding, which is why I have an addiction to writing. People mistake writing with bravery, but I do not suppose there is much courage there. It is quite the opposite sometimes. Written words are many times, ones that could not be said to someone, they hold a weight that a human spirit cannot receive by ear, but only indirectly, only by being read.
Words are heavy, and they seem to fly sometimes, when the tone is light and the vibe is smooth. But they collide with paper and they converge with light and shadow to bring us a message. Sometimes we read a single line and a masterpiece effect takes over; we cannot get over the message conveyed in the way that it was by the person who did. Life is beautiful because it allows us to say what we really need to say, and because we might by some far away stranger or by a wise young child be heard and understood. The experience after all is so distinct for us. We cannot imitate another person’s living mannerisms no matter how hard we try, we are forever merely us and whatever makes us that, continues to nudge us into a form of fulfilment that only we can nod in recognition to.
The human within the grand scheme of everything wraps herself in words and in winds of pleasure and pain in hopes of finally becoming superhuman, in hopes of waking up one day with shattered consciousness capable of accessing the mystery of life. The dream runs below our stories and our secrets, as it bursts in the words we write and attests to the essential struggle of finding meaning that would save us all.
