On Writing

I had forgotten.

I had forgotten the extremity of its cruelty and tenderness. I had forgotten the excitement, the urgency, and excruciating, forehead-knotting intensity of writing soulful words on a blank paper.

I had forgotten the brutal vitality of a writer’s air, the magnificence of a sharp tip scarring the crisp surface of lined paper. The room at a standstill, but the inner mind finding its way through the nonstop noise like two bitter enemies falling into a rapt admiration of each other’s nobility and beauty.

I had forgotten.

I had forgotten how it felt to be like a lover with heaving chest, full of fear that he might get thwarted by a muse. I consigned to oblivion the feeling of finding the right words, the romantic words to appease one’s self. The sheet as battlefield, worn and drenched with scarlet, sometimes black strikethroughs. The dead air and the deletions, the pleasant ellipsis and the odd.

I forgot how it was to be angry. To lash out steady, timbrous but convicting words with traces of mockery garlanding short definitive sentences.

I forgot the blithesome, ecstatic feeling of being genuine enough in expressing one’s self. So beneath the hum of contentment, another tone was playing at the same time, coming from myself.

I unearth them now. These things, I forgot. I missed.

I remember the tender, pressing, inward-driving sentences without stopping. Then writing again, letting the words and rhythms sink in.

I remember now: unable to find myself, stumbling over memories – sitting or standing somewhere, and the scene composes around my attempt to take it in.

I remember feeling, sensing a kind of buzz, not an actual sound but an increased persistence of meaning.

I remember it happening indoors, at the dining table, on the floor. Sometimes with friends or family while the fruit and cake are reduced to scraps. Sometimes with my lover sound asleep, late at night when the house is quiet. Sometimes with my child, unable to sleep, sitting down on the middle of the floor amid books, toys.

But usually it happens in the open air, as I walk a cross a field or park or that part of the beach where the surf washes up and the sands grow darker and lighter as the ocean passes over it and then drains away.

I remember now.

I remember how I intentionally forgot. How I refused to remember all this immensity happening before me. Like a spear quivering in the beating heart, I feel resonance.

I remember now.

And so, I write.



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