writing

why do we write? well i won't presume to explain it for everyone, but why do i write? as a kid i wrote some half-decent poems and stories. i loved stories mostly, both the reading and the telling of them. but poems are often more intimate, like someone's dream you've stepped into.

i wrote a few poems for previous loves. and then i fell in love with a writer.

what can i say? for one, i feel intimidated by the fact that he can come up with a pretty decent poem in about five minutes. for me, writing to describe what i feel is like taking a tiny needle and etching out each line with my own blood. and even then it's not great - nothing in comparison to what i really feel.

and then there's the distance. i can't romanticize it anymore. i can barely even think about it anymore. when i try the tears come and, well, for one it's hard to write with blurry eyes isn't it?

the funny thing is that now is when it would mean so much to him. when we're together and i'm content, probably i could zip off some lovely verses myself, but then it won't matter as much will it? it's now, during our desert years that every drop of love is so important. even the written love.

so maybe the question no longer is why do i write but why don't i? well, my answer is that i've been weak. i've wrapped my whole life, my whole being into this struggle of simply getting through each day as we tick off the calendar. so my words have dried up....

i have a scrap of paper at home. it's a scribbled set of directions, probably while on the phone. it wasn't to me or for me or even when i was there. but when i see that handwriting my heart lifts a little.

anyway, i'll try harder.