On Writing

These Ghosts Sing Bittersweet

Night

Why do you write?

Because of these things that I see. Visions and scenery that become kaleidoscope of color and textures. Because I see the splendour in this world. The great heights of joy and the deepest darkness of despair. This world that moves and changes around me with such speed that I oft worry it means to leave me behind or to push me ahead. Because I feel the happiness and the sadness in Carol’s withered wreath of childhood flowers and because I too sigh alongside Frost where the two roads diverge in a wood.

Why do you write?

Because of these things that I feel. These invisible tendrils called love, that bind us to one another such that we do the most beautiful and horrible things. Our grandest moments of giving and sacrifice and our lowest desires of taking and hurting. They together rise before me like a brilliant and destructive sea. Golden arms of loyalty embracing that sick-green creature that jealously covets. Because often I feel nothing in the achievements of Men and feel everything in the eyes of a broken and battered animal.

Why do you write?

Because of these things I cannot understand. The paradox of an existence where the Divine dances with the Random. Where science can answer everything, but not the most important thing. Where gods love me and hate me. Where everything is my fault and I am forever faultless. Where my perception is reality and nothing is real. Where a parent can be the center of a child’s universe or their demon of hell. Where good decisions matter because they make no difference at all.

Why do you write?

Because of these things that I must know. To understand them, to delve into their depths and soar above them. Their glory, their beauty, their horror, their sadness. To capture both the fantastic and the mundane. To examine each thing’s possibility and walk with them to impossible futures. To contemplate this world as it is and as it might be. To hold these things for just one moment and then to release them upon the page – knowing they are not mine to keep.

Why do you write?

Because of these things I hear. These voices from the past. Shadows of sound that become words and words that build uncertain meaning. They are just dead things from days I can never return or that may never have existed. But they wait for me. They beckon me to their dance. Arms held out with the promise of their cold hateful and warm loving embrace. I ignore them, knowing that I cannot. Voices without substance, mere reflections in the night’s mirror that I love and I loath. These voices that are but ghosts – but these ghosts  sing bittersweet.

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