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Note To Self

It's been a long time since I've written. Since I've sat down, put the world at a safe peaceful distance and felt ink flow through an unseen grain.

Why? I've gone to the computer every night, opened my email, read my letters, and typed my replies. Does that count?

I'm writing, to someone, for someone. Does it count?

 I've spent the endless hours of the night Instant Messaging the far away friends who I've brought closer by artifice. Does it count?

Have I done what I set out for myself? Have I written?

Yet, here it is morning, the sky is "Blue O'clock" (thank you [name] if it wasn't for you I'd never found those words.  I had the thought before, not those words though) and I'm so sleepy, but I have that feeling.

 It's like butterflies in my stomach or a bad cheese sandwich. That's unfulfillment, yeah I remember that. I should write.  But all the reasons in the world keep my head in circles:

Last week my car was broken into, and my bag, with my favorite pens, and the notebooks I had done my last writings were all in there. Now they're gone, my thoughts have become futile, in the hands of a faceless thief who'll never read these things.Will he? She? Will they dare to open the books, after finding nothing of value in the bag? Will he read of the pain I professed, the romance I've faked, the lies I've placed in the hands of beings who have never been? How can I write? How can I dare put myself to paper again, only to know it could all happen again? The computers not safe, a hundred disk back ups and with my luck something will happen.

I've sat in this chair almost 4 hours now, I've checked the email again, and all my IM friends are long asleep in their time zones. I've watched Blue O'clock become some obscenity of blaring sun through the curtains.If I'd a record player it'd long be skipping scratching the last ridge over and over, till I was prodded from this seat to flip it.

It's a circular logic that keeps us all at bay, it's a willingness to lull or sit comfortably. When we write we truly pass by these things, we are not "putting" the world at a distance. We are trying to pull it all into us, compress it all to a singularity and then, watch as the BIG BANG overcomes us. We explode. On the page, we pour it all out. Why? Because this is what we've decided to do.

We are exploders. We are that which burst and pushes forth images, scents, sounds, emotions, and life. We strive for no end. There can be no opposition that can control or impede us. We are writers. That which takes from everything around us and forces it together into new visage, of our creation. We are the masters of beauty, the controllers of power, the makers of legend.

We are today. We have taken all from the past and we set straight what we need for the future. We write because we breath. We write because we yearn. We write because it doesn't stop.