Through all the years of despotism and desolation, we keep writing. Through the years of solemn pain, and understanding, the years of searching, the moment of finding. Through all the times of mindnumbing tears ot the fear of never knowing what’s next, because everything’s here. Or the next moment, when everything’s not. Why do I write? Why do I live and why do we stay here, living and writing with insginificant words and even more insignificant lives, no more important than that of ants. Why live and why survive..Why stay up nights or even worse, why stay up days?
WE don’t live for our dreams. We search for them and we run behind them but when the world comes crumbling down, there isn’t a background score while the tears flow and there isn’t anything philosophical or meaningful. It feels bad and we cry because we can do nothing else. Nothing else because we don’t know why or why not. Fear moves in and out of our lives and all we have to do is stay and watch as if foreign to the very being that moves as our feet does, sees with our eyes and hears the wind through our ears. But being alien to all of this, and being incapable of understanding of fearing life itself, is different. Why do I write? I write for someone who will read, I speak for someone who will listen and I act for someone who will witness. And the search for that someone is all that matters, all that has mattered. But right now, in this moment, in this moment of unknowing, in this moment where we are edging our body to give us that hope or that break, that moment when we realize, ah, it’s pointless to be broken, we need to live and hope, but no. Nothing arises. There is nothing because all the logic, we have thought of, all the escape plans, analyzed, all the quotes and quotable sayings heard and repeated and all the philosophical musings, mused. So why write? Why survive when all is lost? When our bodies and our minds give no hope but to stand against time as it flows till you rot and fall by the flesh, do you smile? Do you jest to the Gods to look down and grace you with intervention and then enlightenment? It makes no sense because nothing seems to matter, nothing except the pointless gaze of sightless eyes, and there isn’t drama or pain or suffering, simply the clean, fresh, nothing.
I write to communicate. But when there is no one to communicate to, I write. Not because everything will be okay, not because I will be, but because the world needs to hear this. I write and I live to smile and to laugh in the words if not in the flesh, I write and I live to look at those around me, hear the wind and smell the things, even if the body seems surreal and unnecessary. I write to surrender myself to the chaos and randomness, that nothing matters and to go on as mundance, unnecessary beings is our calling, because I am afraid of Death and the Darkness when I have to be, but afraid of none and naught when the time needs me to be. Intellect, emotion and it all combining to allow me to make such words, paint such pictures and say such things that don’t matter, don’t have to exist but simply do, just like the life I live that doesn’t need to go on and is purposeless.
There always was something that I needed to do, something above and beyond the call of duty and to change the world, but it doesn’t matter now, because it will come to me. It doesn’t matter, because the chaos and the fact that none of it matters, give me the power to swim through the shortcuts to that time where I must do what I must. Though nothing matters, and I write now for nobody, and search for nothing and noone, and dream no more, I write. And in fear, live.
I write in fright.
I write the night.
Until next time, love.