As someone who blogs quite sporadically, I’ve had to take a moment or two and contemplate why I do this. Why do I write and why here?
I write so that I don’t become one of the dull-eyed people, nodding nearly to the ground that you see all over this city. Some are obvious addicts who just got a hit but there are many who touch no drugs but find themselves deadening to make it through. I choose neither, so I write.
I write because my pen still loves you. It holds onto our memories more steadfastly than my cluttered mind. It strokes the side of your face to life and dips into your kisses for ink. The pen never lets that dream disintegrate. I can visit again and again begging for one more. The pen always complies, so I continue to write.
I write because I often choke on my truth. It burns my chest seeking its release. I write of the permanent stain left without a glimpse back. Somewhere someone reads and it may not be that who but someone knows. In the writing, there is that solace.
I write to be known. To be held here in some way. To be had here in that way. To have here in this way. Here, someone can almost hear me scream, laugh, sigh and may care. I write here because breathing is not enough.