On Writing

Today has been a very productive day and yet again the one thing I don't want to do is write. I resent my art at times. Wish I had been given music instead, or painting... anything but words. Because words though full of life, descriptive and magical they can also be tedious. As I'm sure all gifts are to their owners. Some of the best writing of all time was done on the subject of writing and I sense the reason behind that is that writers are all too aware of how double edged the sword that they carry really is. And how heavy. Sometimes writing is the only thing pulling at your heart strings enough to write about.

I guess a painter could paint a piece depicting someone painting and a singer could sing about the experience of singing... but there is something unique, in my own opinion anyway, about written word discussing itself. It seems self-centered and yet not at the same time, because it really is not about the writer at all... it's the process. The work of it. The bleeding onto paper or a keyboard, maybe even a typewriter. My fingers feel both light, almost ethereal in a sense and weighted. Foreign beings attached to my body. Sentient creatures on their own, without the aid of anything connected or external. Except of course my mind, which can be either unaware of it's own existence during it's pouring out, or extremely, painfully in the way. Obvious. Obtrusive. A hurdle for itself to jump over. Both the gate and the key.

There is something to this writing about writing. Something which cannot be described entirely by words... which may be why again and again I try. I keep circling around the subject hoping for something more substantial. Maybe less pretentious. But it always calls out to me when those other, more worthy topics slip through my grasp. For it remains, always in the pit of my stomach. Forever residing in both my outer most extremities and the core of my being.

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