Why do we love if it hurts to do so?
And why do we long for something so far away?
What is our reason for being, for existing?
And what defines who we are and separates us from the others?
The reason is simple, not so far beyond our conscious objections
Or too shallow for piercing revelations and fiery gazes to settle upon
I write when I cannot think or speak - when no words can be formed except
Those which flow through my soul, to my blood, to my fingers,
And pour themselves onto a page, ebony and crimson
These are the things worth fighting and living for
Heaven only knows the reason for living, but the reason for writing?
To share the collective human imagination - one body, one heartbeat coursing through us all
Startling dreams and earth-shattering realities have no grip on those who
Sit high above in an alternate world, watching and waiting
These hands that give life to words and thoughts
No longer connected to the soul except when there are words to bring forth
I write because these words heal and bring life; they give birth to ideas
In this little corner of space I sit, creating, and living my dreams through the written word