On Writing

"Writing would be merely an act of crazy hubris were
it not a means of discovery, cunning and patient."
~Mary Rose O'Reilly

       After I have made a deposit of some random thought on these pages, I resist the urge to go back an hour later, the next day, a month from now and read what I had splashed like paint on a canvas to the page of this public journal. When I have braved doing a backward glance, I will sputter and gulp at my admissions. A personal cringe at my erratic carnage.

       It is with that thought, that I've been toiling, as I typically do with this subject, why the hell does one subject their struggles to the concrete means of writing?

       If I assign concepts to it, I can come up with a few meaningful possibilities.

        Writing for me, is like binding the inside universe that is me to the outside world. Each sentence I write is from within, a silent word or emotion, a concept or complex contention. The real point of departure is when I can pen the inside to letters and sentences removed from me. Hence writing. Until that happens, all that I think is swallowed and digested over and over again until I can finally transfer it from one dimension to another. 

       Perhaps the simple twist I seek in life is a feeling of continuity between the inner workings and the outer workings. The division of who I am inside and who I eloquently portray on the outside have extremely contrasting qualities. For me, writing is the only bridge that connects the two.

       Writing also has the ability to connect the present person that is me with the former self. When I write, I find a lot of the time I am bridging a gap between past and present, the person I was yesterday, with the person I am today. Writing is a way to extend a hand of friendship or berate the choices and chances my former self already experienced.

       I write to lay neatly in front of me what discovery I've accomplished. I write to extinguish flames I've callously let burn inside and I write to divide importance from insignificant.

       The trick to writing honestly is finding the fine line between memory, thoughts, imagination and truth. Memory is an entity all on it's own, a powerhouse that has the ability to keep me up at night, berate me or comfort me at any given time. It's within those memories that I unravel them, write them, dispose of them or continue to harbor. Writing is my medium, the pen or keyboard the device in which to transfer, the blank page my cradle of acceptance.

       I have to assume others have found different strategic ways to handle their zone between inner and outer workings. For me, it has always been writing. Conversations between my former self and my current person. Memories clashing with reality. Discovery blending with experience. Knowledge merging with wisdom. Nothing extraordinary about any of this, people have done such means of transfer since the beginning of time. But it helps, to think about it, especially when I question the 'why' in my writing, the 'how' in my placement of my words and the 'holy shit did I publicly display that' in my choice of concrete.

       My inside is constantly fighting for a voice, my outside is as quiet as a river. Perhaps, someday, I will feel as big on the outside as I do on the inside.