Lately, I’ve forgotten why I write, especially since my posts are pushed onto Facebook and Twitter. I just shut that off. Too much speculation about who’s reading and what they’re getting. Fuck them! No offense.
I write to remember what it feels like to run at night for no reason at all except that I need to be somewhere else every second. To slosh about the contents of my heart so that I don’t need to feel its inherent turbulence in the silence. I write to talk to myself when no one else will. I write to talk to those who came before me, and to address those who will come after me. I write to unshield my flame and light up a part of the world for those who care to look.
But beyond writing for myself, I need to remember to live for myself. “Don’t do anything that’s not fun,” says DFD. So what if I live my life on my own terms? In the end, I disappoint nobody but myself. As long as I can still listen to a friend when they’re troubled or feel the sun on skin, I’ll be fine.
Hmm. I think I’m done with this one.
PS, Thanks to Suran and Don