Still I Write

12-03-24 Anton's Writing Workshop

I want to write because when I was conceived, instead of flesh and blood, I was made of flesh and ink. Writing will always be the purest expression of myself - words on paper are memoriam of sort - each version of me that is born and ceases to exist - proof of her exists on paper. I need to write because if I don’t, there is nowhere else for me to put all this. All the grief and heaviness and sadness and joy and pain. I can lie to everyone but I cannot lie to a piece of paper. How can I? A tree gave its life up for this. How else can I honour it? How else can I honour myself? I have to write because if I don’t, I might cave into myself. If I don’t write, then what am I? All I want to say is that I was here. I am but a speck of dust in the grand scheme of humanity, I know that. But this speck of dust wants to have meant something, even for a little while. I will write because that is all I know how to do. A pen in my hand is a weapon, a lover’s caress, a mother’s touch, a sister’s hug. A pen in my hand is possibility. It is eternity, infinity and all sorts of synonyms for endless. The ink will dry and my flesh will decay but this will last forever. Maybe not forever, but long enough.