I write because it’s euphoric therapy. It’s the opportunity to use this language to express myself in a way that I can’t through voice. It’s my outlet into a secret world. A world someone may stumble upon on dusty shelves and find solace in my words.
My vague compliment to people, to society and to the life I experience. It may not be epic or mind blowing, but for that one soul whose eyes dance across the pages, whose mouth angles into a crooked smile, whose ducts produce a liquid formation or whose head ebbs in a fluid motion to agreement, I am satisfied.
That one individual is my audience. Those pair of eyes is who I write for. It’s that one occasion where my words are taken into someone else’s life that makes my passion worth every compression to my keyboard.
There are critics who can say I have years to come before I even remotely reach the level of an intermediate writer. There are those who will scrutinize my verbiage for everything it is, but I am simple. I am content. I am simply a writer who does it for the mere satisfaction that my thoughts are recorded and hopefully discovered. If that is a goal I never reach at least my words have made it to concrete form.
Am I poetic? I feel at times I have a sense of hard pressed emotion. Am I lyrical? I’d like to think my rhythm follows a beat. I can ask questions to emphasize my creativity, but the utter fact is I write with love.
