These are one of the rare times I know I am truly a writer.
The sunrise comes swiftly yet subtly as I sit in bed and attempt to figure out if not make sense of a dilemma. Within a few minutes, I arrive at nothing. Rightfully so as no great dilemma has ever been solved within mere minutes. I decide to turn on my laptop and write.
Writing has always been an artful refuge, an easy respite, and a foolproof way for me to go through the notions. I write to understand. I write to make sense of things. I write with the necessary hope that at the end of the piece, I am able to arrive at a conclusion.
Words flow far too freely and my mind in all its delicate complexity takes on the written word as its vehicle. I am able to organize my otherwise fickle ideas, retain sentences with substance, and cruelly erase the phrases that I believe to possess no poignant thought.
With writing, I author an introduction, a body, and a conclusion. I pose a problem, posit theories, relay observations, and finally recount what has been articulated. With writing, I engage the entirety of my body in thought: I allow my fingers to strike the keyboard mercilessly and somewhat masterfully (or so I’d like to think), I afford my eyes the chance to stare down an immaculate whiteness in the form of a blank Word document, and I stupidly find myself syncing my breathing with that little line that continues to blink, somewhat waiting if not urging me to rid of it by typing again.
My breathing eases ever so slightly as I continue to orchestrate this penned piece.
A deeper breath seems to be in order at the moment but I hold it while I’m still mid-sentence attempting to convey a wild truth. Once a period has been placed, I hesitantly return to the awareness that before me looms the immensity of white space previously mentioned, space I must fill with my craft, and space dedicated to my questioning of the violence that reality has once again plagued me with.
With every comma comes a pause. A luxurious pause afforded for me to gather my ideas or perhaps even just vague semblances of it.
With every period comes a generous breath. A breath that reminds me to keep going even as it lightly falters.
With every closing sentence comes a new paragraph. A new coherence that salvages remnants of the paragraph that came before it and takes it on, only to address it properly and give it its deserved meaning.
With every closing paragraph comes the anxiety of yet another written piece that bears no profundity or substance. An anxiety that is thankfully easily dispelled by crafting another piece of writing.