Therefore, You Read, I Write
Why is it that when my heart is breaking, I feel like writing? When the tears are at flood stage, what is it that turns me away from everything and brings me here? Is it images of loves lost, or what-could-have-been, or what could be? Is it the glorious, yet painful tearing apart I feel inside? There is so much emotion churning inside me. It must be the clean whiteness of a blank page. It is so peaceful – like a white blanket of snow hiding all the ugly decomposition of the past. Nevertheless, it is on this canvas that I spill my thoughts. It is not always ugly. It is not always painful. At times, it is joyous, or whimsical. Other times, it is dark and gothic. Occasionally, it is reverent or lyrical. It is me in words.
I have not always been a writer. I don’t exactly know where it came from. I read off and on as a child and was fascinated by dinosaur names, archaeology, and Edgar Rice Burroughs books. I loved the cover artwork of Frank Frazetta. Books offered so many places for the mind to go. Sometimes though, the mind kidnaps the heart and thus begins another adventure. It is when the two pair up that the seed of pain is often sown.
If the seed lands on hard impenetrable ground, the heart can often escape with little to no ache. But sometimes, if that seed finds fertile, well tended earth, a beautiful rush of emotion can sprout. Reaching for the promise of tending, careful grooming, and manicure, pain sets deep roots. The roots sink deeper as the heart-stalk blindly branches forth. This is where the danger lies. The victorious roots care not where they anchor, and the stalk is blind to its surroundings. Unfortunately, in this situation, the heart becomes a weed polluting an otherwise beautiful garden. It does not belong there. It might attempt to mimic others in its midst, but it is a weed nonetheless. It does not belong here. At one point, usually as the heart is quite happy, it becomes noticed. Pain senses this and, as the heart is ripped from the ground, pain begins to ooze from every pore. It consumes the heart, and the heart dies. Yet as it dies, it manages to drop a single seed. This seed is wafted aloft and drifts. Undercurrents carry it carefully and steadily. Pain, borne in the shadow of the heart, blankets the mind.
I don’t know why I write like I do. Sometimes it is a form of camouflage for other meanings. Sometimes I just put down what is on my mind. I understand it - although others may not. That is what makes it special to me and to those who know my mind and have seen my heart. This is why I write. In a world where spoken words must be carefully considered prior to leaving one’s mouth, on paper or in print, I can create, edit, delete, or be as effusive as I want. This is my world. I can invite whomever I wish. They can stay as long as they want or they can leave without closing the door. I’m good either way. I alone control my writing. If it touches you; if it penetrates your soul; if it stirs you to tears - then so be it. If it angers you; if it inspires you; if it leaves you scratching your head – well, that’s OK too. You are the one who chose to read it. I just put it out there - like a bowl of candy at the bank. No one is going to force you to have any. It is free to all.
Perhaps I should “go” somewhere and write. Hemmingway did. But how could I leave my friends and family? Oftentimes, I wonder if I haven’t already left. Maybe that is why I churn so much inside sometimes. Does anyone experience the marvelous storms that explode unchained over the vastness of the ocean? Only those who are there - amidst the boiling sea and unfettered forces of nature can truly experience the storms that rage within my heart. This is the wild, untamed, battle between my head and my heart. Maybe that is why Tasmania appeals to me so much. Wild, untamed, and a world apart - not a world away…and they speak English!
Myk
