On Writing

You know, upon writing, you are letting something emotional out whenever you can trace your fingertips upon your scratch page and feel the grooves where your pen bore its bledding ink into that victimized sheet of paper. And perhaps doing so, exerts more muscle tension, over enough time, than hitting a punching bag...so I write and write. Hoping all things so strongly felt whether love, hate, anger, pain, joy, sorrow, bitterness, truth, hope, sexuality, unkempt wrath...all passions that consume a wild heart in a caged body in a caged society can exert its vibrance and find its more acceptible outlet. I thought to take kick-boxing one day but I'm afraid I'd knock somebody's teeth out. Or perhaps, I'd get my own knocked out...either way it would involve physical pain and embarrassment. My smile as a writer is prettier. Besides such violence would only further fan that emotion-to-release cycle all over again. However.... perhaps, writing is all about a cycle. We writers grab for this crystalization, or freeze frame of this cycle. Whether we cry, laugh, curse, praise, sleep, or wake into space with open eyes, there is both a conscious and unconscious attempt at stealing that moment and deeming it our own. We are the principle idolaters, for we mold from our very hands the sacred elements of life, that holy fire, and fashion it according to our clay minds and shaky hearts...something as holy and as sacred as that cycle itself, and then we commit the blasphemy of blasphemies by attaching our names to it and giving ourselves applause and expecting praise. When, in reality, we are just conductive plants that have been blown by the wind, scorched by the sun, drowned by the rains, like all the other plants...except we somehow were the rare few that were struck by lightning as well...and I guess that event alone has made all the difference...and the reason I write these things and for so blasted long.