Many The Words

Lately, I've been wondering about what writing means to me.

And why I instinctively avoid writing in first person.

As much as it is an honest and personal issue, I figure it has much to do with dealing with me.

Every time I run from writing, I run from me.

I don't like saying statements that would make me cringe when I read it the next time around.

I don't like sounding like an indulgent seventeen year old. And yes, I do not like situations where I have to contest that my mental age is frozen at seventeen.

I feel like writing. Every damned day.

I feel like opening my eyes, absorbing a moment of beauty, and keeping it there. Just as beautiful.

So, the world can read the same beauty that I'd seen there, then.

And it's always in wondering, if someone else smiles the way I do, or loses at least one of the senses to a moment.

Do people smile at a cashier counting coupons, her lips and tongue moving soundlessly to English numerals, with Mandarin phonetics? Can deja vu happen by way of smell? Isn't listening to someone, with your eyes watching their eyes smile, light up, disappear to places you can't tell, a wonderful thing? Does anyone watch how they absently smile, and let you in on how they and their faculties are continually fabricating words, gestures, expressions to translate what they're processing deep inside - letting you in on something so private?

Writing, to me, is what I heard when I was listening.

Writing to me, is when I pin down zero intent, and pure indulgence into structure, form, prose, poetry, images, visuals. Verbs, adjectives. Values, judgements, grammatical errors, clauses.

Is when I archive everyday, and sew days together with words.