Thinking about writing
I need more nights like this. Nights with a cup of tea and good music playing in the background and my cat lying by my side. More nights with candle light dancing against the backdrop of my apartment walls because the night air is careening in through the open window smelling of moist soil, flowers and rebirth.
I have been thinking lately about why I write. In college I never gave it a passing thought. I wrote to avoid doing my assignments. I wrote because it was a release. I wrote because it was a cathartic medicine for the sufferings of adolescence. And I wrote letters of love and lust and admiration to those people who held my fleeting attention at any given moment.
I explained in this entry that I could not call myself a writer because I had run aground against them in my meanderings on the sea of writing, and their presence and permanence against the relentless tide of words were proof of my insignificance. I do realize that I possess the ability to construct a sentence well and to clearly convey subject matter bordering on elaborate and still retain the understanding of my audience. And yet.
That's all. No answer, no "and" or "but" or explanation. Just the statement that I have been thinking lately about why I write, and apparently I am writing about why I have been thinking that.