I write because its what I do. Like breathing, thinking, eating, being. Writing is something to do. It takes the dust from the sinews in the mind and scatters it just under my nose, makes me sneeze to release the collective phlegm. Get it out. And then, when the nasal passages are cleared, it allows me to breathe in the reality of a cleaner world. I take it all in. The stories from around me, and the data from within. I make notes. I present them to a greater audience. And it takes on a life of its own.
I write. Because I love the idea of feeling bloated with ideas and letting them flow through an unlikely orifice; the tips of my fingers. Like a secret door, they tap, tap, tap at the keyboard to undo the latch and let the words out. They burst forth then, spewing contempt, reason and appreciation all at once. Its a colourful blend, not always fit to smell the fresh ink of the printer's realm. But expressive and alive all the same. Sometimes the tap, tap, tap of these tips must be felt on a pressed leaf; sheaths of paper partake in their regurgitation and the force of the tapping is the inspiration for a charcoaled soul in a wooden body that must collate the tappers whispers into something solid, readable, drinkable. Pencil painstakingly carries this guarded duty, then.
I write because I must.
Drink. And be drunk on everything that life has to offer.
I write. And write. And forget to write. And then, I dream about writing. So I write.
Free writing is almost embarassing.
But. I write. Because. It's free.
Breathing should be just as free.
But for now, writing is.
PS: Apologies for the ramble. I'm spring-cleaning! *SN33ZE*
Copyright Shafinaaz Hassim (C) 2009
Local Council By-Elections April 2017
1 hour ago