A Write to Life

I have a soft and often worn, white T-Shirt. On the front, written in large black letters are the words: "So many books, so little time!" I spend my life writing. And I wonder why and how it happens and for me this is especially difficult when my Muse has gone.

I miss my Muse and dedicate this to him, and all those who write beside me and hope it is part of my legacy too.

A Write to Life

We write.
We write to speak
when we have no "official voice".
We write to wrestle
with our own flesh and blood
and humanity and spirituality.

We write to ease our pain,
to dance with letters
when no human can fill that need.

We write from ordinary hope
to extraordinary hope
and experiences.

We write when we are alone
and when we are in crowds.
We write at first waking
and as we stumble into our beds weary.
Our dreams are filled with the ink
on the pages of our dreams.

We ache to “speak” to another,
to connect in a society
where wires or wireless
are more common that hugs,
whether they are like
the French touching cheeks in “air hugs”
or the 90-second,
too-long, Sheridanne hugs
that are meant to relax you
and result in giggles.

We write in a desperate effort
To travel the space from me to you
– that is the key
no matter how close
or far the distance is.

Does a tree
falling in an empty forest
make a sound?

You bet it does.

And so our writing matters
if we only write
in invisible letters
on the backs of our loved ones
or in sky writing puffs
of vapour in the sky.

We hide our writing sometimes
and sometimes we buy billboards
to expose others to our thoughts
as if we are opening our own bright blue raincoats
so others will recognise our bits hang there.

We write to live
and we write because
we will not always live.

We dream of a legacy where
a small corner of our Moleskine notes
is found in the back
of our auctioned off, old, ratty desk
and know our words may change the future
if we have chosen our words well.

Writing to live
and living to write –
some of us know this
and it terrorises us
and it inspires us
and it depresses us
and it enlivens us.

The writing life
– who can top it?
– Should it be topped?
– Can it be topped? ‘

No.

It exists
to humble those of us
who are obsessed by it.