Why I Write

I write…
To sift through the thoughts that are clamoring inside my head,
shooting stars, meandering messages that have no place to go.
I try to corral them and set them down.
There is something a little magical about stringing words together
into a tapestry of images, stories, sensations.
A little like songwriting, I imagine.
There is a rhythm, notes placed on the base and treble clefs.
Like those notes, the words sing in my ear.
And as in a song, I am always looking for the final note set.
The last point, the staccato, the crescendo,
the drum beat, ba da boom, to signal the end.
It often takes time, but it is so satisfying.

I write…
To make myself giggle.
Oh, yes. I just slay myself.
All alone writing down the memory of a tickling life scene,
like a SNL sketch. And chortling over some line,
each time I re-read it.

I write…
To allow myself to weep. A soft, tearful reliving.
A release of what I didn’t even know was lurking in my heart mind.
A connection to the past I thought somehow was gone
No, not gone, just buried in the safe deposit box of my memory bank.

I write…
Because my age is becoming a real number to me as never before.
Those numbers previously were just digits;
no particular meaning attached to them.
But 78, 79 soon to be ___, I can’t even write it, let alone say it, 
and then let’s face it,
soon to be gone.
I am toying with a thought of legacy.
I will be gone, but what will remain of my having spent some time on this planet?

I write…
Because I am curious to know if my thoughts might connect to someone else,
like reaching out my hand to the universe
and wondering if anyone will take hold of it.
Walk with me a while.