Some days, I’d rather write about life than actually live it. Some days, I have to remove myself from the very experience of living, feeling, even breathing because it’s just too much. I have to step outside of the convoluted web of humanity’s interconnectedness. I have to step away from being. These are the days I NEED to write. These are the days I can only exist through composition: words, pen, ink, paper become the very stuff of my veins and life blood, my water, my air, my viscera.
I write when the feelings become too intense; when I can no longer allow myself to submit to them. I write when I have to break these sensations apart, when I have to pull and tear and gnaw at the very sinew of emotion, and reconstruct the injured remnants within the simplified confines of language structure. Then I can project it: although only a shadow of what it once was, I can convey an emotion constrained by a label and forced to fit into a definition that the world accepts.
That gives me a certain degree of control. And a false sense of it, no doubt. But the ever-sought-after-coveted-and-beloved sense of control, false or true, is worth the pains.
1 comment:
Wow. Very well said. I think that I, too, had written a piece regarding the same topic. Beautifully awesome.
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