I understand that writing is not a priority when it comes down to survival. Food, shelter, water, medicine. I know these are the core things I need to survive in this world and most other things can be overlooked.
But I don’t want to just survive. Food, water, shelter, clothing might keep my body alive and functioning but writing is what my soul feeds on. Stories are what I need to be really alive, not merely functioning. For a while now, okay, for most of the year so far I’ve been living in a state of survival. I need to be alive. I need to live and be able to look back when the world and bodily things fall away and see that I went through life with reason, passion and purpose. Life is burns too fast. It’s very easy to waste an hour, a day, weeks and years. It’s very easy to look back and think of wasted time, taken for granted and squandered away.
Sure everyone needs, and deserves a little squandering. But waste builds up like toxins in a life. Waste begats waste where as for me writing is opening the windows to a spring breeze to let all that potential in.
Yeah, there are more important things in life that isolating myself and striving to write that perfect tale. But it’s not about the end result. It’s about the strive. It’s about wanting more, and working for more and bringing that into all parts of my life. Writing is the core of more, which is why it’s the song my soul sings.
I haven’t been singing for a while now, and I hurt because of it. I’m ready for not a hummed tune, or a half remembered bubble gum pop chorus. I’m ready for a full-ensemble orchestra.
So life, fuck you and your drama. Your trauma. Your emergencies and insomnia. Fuck you and your demand for functionality and priorities, for cost cutting and need judging. Fuck your games and your rules and your black-lined moments of hope.
I refuse to merely function. So I’ll be in my room. Writing.
