What is it that compels me to write?
Is it some sick sense of self-gratification? Of Obligation?Of a desire to make an impact on someone else, to not be forgotten even long after the dew of death rests upon my stone-cold lashes? A time will come when the light of life no longer illuminates my features and my hands clutch unfeelingly upon my chest. Surely, that image strikes fear into my heart and brings a violent tremble to my pen as I write,, But that is not why I write. I write because I must. There is a deep compulsion within my spirit;I am powerless to resist. Have you ever been moved to tears by sheer beauty? Pure, dumbstruck wonder at this world that we inhabit. I have. I feel it as I gaze out of my double-plated airplane window, the lace-like blossoms of ice crystalizing the outer pane like a lingering kiss- an innocent display of perfection. Then there are the clouds: misshapen puffs of water that somehow have the ability to reflect the state of your soul in their whimsically faded forms. They play along when giggling children point out impossible shapes in their gentle curves, but if you look- I mean really look- the clouds find a deeper voice in your soul that somehow spans the void between dreams and realities. Next comes the ocean- an endless expanse of reflecting glory. How can I fathom its depths? How can I begin to imagine thee the life that pulses under the surge of the waves? Lord, it is staggering. It is enough to move even a heart of stone to tears. So why do I write?I write because I must. But why must I?It gives me a voice. But it is not a voice to communicate with man. Like the clouds, it is my bridge to the Eternal, to the Divine. A deep well resides within my chest. Sometimes it is empty. In the dry seasons, any water that remains unclaimed by the brutal healt delves miles under the sand, beyond the reach of my drawing bucket.The walls crack, my chapped lips crack, my hope cracks.I curl up feebly on the scorched ground and pray for rain.And then I wait for a cloud. Sometimes, my well is overflowing. I feel it bubbling up deliciously within my spirit, cool water caressing and healing my burned and blistered flesh.I have enough water to share, and I want to draw everyone to my well to show them how much I have been blessed and to share my blessing. Why do I write?I write because it rips the veil from my eyes.I cannot hide who I am- not from myself. Not from my pen.With each ink stain on my white paper, my soul is stripped bare. And in my nakedness, I can be healed. And, dear God, how often I need healing!