Writing is to me

as oxygen is to fire,

or sunlight to the welcoming branches of a tree.

The ink that courses through my veins,

thick and black,

keeps me alive--nourishes both mind and soul.

 

My brain is full, filled to bursting,

and stories are how I make some sense of a world

with little sense left.

Words, when pieced together, make a story,

make things clear,

though it may not be simple.

But it will still be easier to cope

than before.

 

I find it endlessly fascinating that it's through the same hand--

my hand, with slender fingers and rivers of veins--

that worlds are born and then die,

characters take life,

and the deeper sinews of my heart are realized.

How can one small human

be capable of such

magic?

 

And despite the wonder, it hurts,

just as it always hurts when whispering shadows are

brought before the first rays of dawn,

It is lonely,

it is exhausting,

and you'll sit with head buried in hands, wondering why you even try.

 

And yet you live for the exhaustion and the pain,

because in the end you've made something beautiful.

Just like you.

It's not perfect--riddled with human faults and fissures and flaws--but stunning all the same.

Take pride in knowing,

as I do,

that it's not easy,

but worth it.

 

So sit at the desk.

Crumple the paper

Bite the eraser.

The world will take flight,

drift away,

and suddenly there is nothing but you--

the medium from which words bleed--

and the empty canvas that will catch the

spilled ink.

 

Crack open your ribcage--extract the heart--watch as it beats.

Set it upon the page so that the ink may better flow and seep into the fibers,

until it has run dry,

looping and curling into

magnificent,

     terrible,

          illusive,

               chaotic words. 

Still beating--always beating.

Still warm.

Still alive.

Just like you.

Writing--that ethereal crafting of words--is proof that you're alive.