I write.

I need to write. I have to write.

Always.

 

The words I don't speak spill accross paper in crisp typed letters or smudged black ink.

And I try to make sense of a world that's so broken by speaking the words that are never spoken.

Except I don't speak them.

I write.

About how we're being lied to, me and you, as society whispers rules, taints and colors our views

About others,

   About the world,

      About ourselves.

About how relationships are a mess and never make sense, about how having more is actually about having less.

About how somehow despite everything, we have to love, because that need, that drive, was woven into us by the Big Guy above,

So that it's utterly inescapable.

   And I would know.

About how sometimes there isn't someone to blame, there's just life, there's just pain, and if we could accept that, maybe there would be less shame.

About how the most contradictory but truest statement is that you and I are nothing alike, but exactly the same, and when things don't make sense, they can still be right, and for that, there's a name:

Truth.

   And most truth makes no sense at all.

 

I write because I can't help myself,

I can't stop myself,

Because this world is wild and chaotic,

But in chaos, there is order: a fractal.

 

I write because I don't understand any of these things,

But I want to.

So the reason I write is to uncover truth.

And often truth eludes me, like Peter Pan's shadow,

   Teases and prances and dances away,

      Just out of reach.

And often my quest for an answer just produces more questions,

   But that's beautiful, because understanding truth requires time, thoughtful chewing, slow digestion.

 

And when I really think about it, I don't know much, but I know this:

If there is one thing worth searching for,

One treasure that needs to be uncovered,

It's truth.

And that?

That's truth.