From the Rubble

There's something so inviting and terrifying about the blankness of a page. Too white, too empty, desperately aching for it's first tattoo.

Although people are often kind enough to compliment my writing, seldom do they ask the question I'd think they'd most like to know- why? Why do I write- if not as I do, simply at all? Many don't feel any pull towards placing themselves on a page. Maybe I wonder because this is the one-word serpent tongued question I find lashing out inside me throughout each and every day- Why? Why would she say that? Why did I forget that? Why did I take this way home?? I guess I can't help it, I'm curiously crazy.

It might seem a funny question to some, but why is most of what the experience is for me- It takes me to a place not even I understand- I feel transported to a limitless land where expectation can't survive. Where possibility's in my hands- a series undiscovered lying within, ready to pounce free. Actions can't be re-acted, but words can be re-written.

Do you ever stop to think- 26 versions of small lines, miniature symbols, each with their own rule and concept- together forming a tool which enables understanding, to communicate our inherent- what a gift we take for granted, no?

For me, that's the magic- that this gift we've been bestowed to aid in our smooth function in society, which has in turn laid a communicative foundation for the whole of the human routine-provides individuals the constant ability to create anew, glueing masterpieces from the rubble.

This is how I quite literally imagine writing- I see the sentence in my head, floating, ready for deletion & completion- the re-arranging of what's been done too many times in the past to count, but in a way recognizable, all my own, and best yet- worthy of a breath of praise.