I just want to write.
I always say that, don’t I? “Oh, I just want to write. I need to write”.
But that doesn’t do this immense need justice. These things seem to be pushing themselves out of me. You cannot contain it. If you don’t attend to it, it will circle your mind and run endlessly on the alleys of your thoughts. Your thoughts will pile up on top of another, some heavier than the others, creating imbalances. It will go on and on until like lava, it streams out of your core in whatever way possible. Destructing, giving life, leaving behind all of its fiery residue.
It’s been said that Ernest Hemingway woke up at 5 in the morning and immediately began writing. He would not stop until he has written down everything that he wanted to say. Maybe he felt this way too. Maybe his fingers tapped on the typewriter as if it were governed by the forces of the sea and could not calm its raging waves until it has exhausted the energy and has let it out into the vast, open world.
To write is an act of marriage. Between the eyes that see what needs to be written and the heart that feels all that needs to be said; the mind – the mind that works all of its elements together to put all the right words and picture out what is divine and immortal; the soul in you that speaks to the soul in others, to deliver the things that you desire to share today and many years from now. It’s a matrimony that seals time and pushes everything toward the infinite, no matter how small and futile this attempt may seem. And if nature so desires these writings remain intact – should it be read by the generations after you – it will immortalize you. And it will tell them, as old writings have told us; and it could comfort them as we have been comforted by the greatest authors and masters and mentors, that they are not alone on their journey. To nurture the fight they have in them, everyday, because this fight will last for years longer than they will.