Why do I do this?
Why do I write and keep writing?
Why do I sit here each day and pour my heart out onto a page that seems to know me better, to get me more than the people I have spent a lifetime hiding from?
Why do I put my heart into a string of substantial, insignificant words, when I do not even want to look at my heart let alone allow my pen to get a full, partial or even the most minuscule of views that sometimes I only just manage to expose?
Why do I do this?
I do this so that my mind can breathe. It has no other route for exhale. And inhale, oh, this is where it comes to take in its first clean breaths in its crumbling world of stagnantly polluted air that is stunting its growth with every passing second of suffocation.
I do this because my soul is bleeding. It is bleeding out all over my wounded body, forcing me to leave its stain somewhere so my bloody mess of truth can be tangibly recalled, long after they have neatly stitched my soul back together, cleaning away all traces of blood and leaving no scars or war wounds behind.
I do this because my soul needs to bleed. It needs to be allowed to burst out of its sterile yet dirty prison which gives no escape for its cravings to break and to be infected, to heal and to grow. It needs to give vision to the crimson tears which pool around its core, needing a moment to cry out blood into the white room of its captivity.
I do this so my body can make its first attempts at untangling some of the tightly knotted tensions, memories, revelations that are relentlessly becoming more twisted and tethered and bound as it plays to my mind and heart the knowledge and memory and emotion that it has been gripping and weaving and forming into a solid, unbreakable mass that now needs to be cracked open, explored and set free.
I do this because my heart needs to create. It needs to write a self portrait of its ugly, heavy, life-giving pulses that cavort around its shell as I curl into the corner of my shielded, blackened, expressionless world. It needs to paint meaning to its existence, giving life to its every skipped beat and each lingering thud.
I do this so my senses remember: To hear the inner wisdom of the universe speaking through my hands and my heart. To see the wonder of the world in my own versions of living and loving. To smell all of the magnificent scents and breath-taking stenches of life and death. To taste every morsel of sweet and sour and bitter and bland and spice that being alive can offer. So they remember to feel, and feel and feel and feel and feel.
I do this so I am kept alive. Because I am alive. So I can allow myself to live and die and be reborn; to rip my life into a million tiny jagged pieces, to mend and mold myself into who I am. To let myself give and receive and share. To keep hold of what is rightfully mine and to throw it away and take it all back again. To give myself time to find my life, my questions, my answers, my pain, my comfort, my self, tucked away behind the mystery of past and present and future versions of my story.
I do this because I know no other way. I know nothing else but to feel through words; a written, spoken, verbalised expression of all that is good and bad, whole and empty. I know no other way to hold my world and to share it; to give it away to the universe when I can hold it inside no longer.
Why do I do this?
I do this so I can see who I have been, so I can be, so I can become.
I do this so I can make sense, make nonsense; so I can make.
I do this because my spirit calls me here, because my spirit is here.
I do this because it is in me.
I do this because it is a part of me.
I do this because this is who I am.