About Writing

I was thinking today about my writing. I like writing. I like to express myself, I like to create a narrative and play with words and concepts. I like to explore the human experience and discover new ways to formulate ideas and thoughts of mine. Writing is in many ways an adventure. But it’s not a tedious and messy hike through a real jungle or a dangerous and soggy voyage across the actual sea. Instead I sit comfortably in front of my computer. I all but shut down my body and let my mind wander. As thoughts drift unsuspecting through my consciousness I capture them by piercing them with words and nailing them to the virtual pages of a text file. They are mine now. At the same time, they have suddenly gotten life of their own and exist outside of my mind. It’s a weird sensation to see my thoughts going about their business on the page in front of me. They are at my mercy, yet I am at theirs. Their clothing with letters reveals the nakedness of my soul. And I shiver. Even as the words mean nothing I cherish them and love them. Because they came from me — I created them. At least I think I created them. Who can really understand what happens when a thought is formed?