Write.

Calling forth words from above,

     beyond.

Isn’t that the goal?

Not to produce, no,

     but to usher in.

*

Searching the 

     edges of the known universe

     where the creation is very old,

     and the view is clear

     and true.

Putting down onto page

     that which can’t be denied;

     that which smolders and compels us

     even through our calculated distractions.

Sending us to the pulp each day,

     swords unsheathed.

Drawing out inspiration with 

     ink made from primordial ooze and

     the sticky residue of our collective unconscious.

*

We are destined to spend our lives

     vainly attempting to translate The Real.

A never-ending battle with clumsy, filthy hoards of words,

     desecrating the holiest of our holies;

     while we lie on our faces

     at the foot of a cold, marbled altar—

     grasping,

Begging to be worthy

     to express what she has showed us 

     when we weren’t looking.

*

A trickle of my will runs down

    my back.

This liar,

     Language.

She taunts us with a calling,

     then laughs at us without mercy

     as we beat our heads against

     the walls of her limits.

And only when power is depleted,

     fear laughed at,

     ego exhausted,

     does she come.

*

Sometimes she arrives

     direct, and commanding.

You take dictation from The Source.

She flows like electricity,

     a current of truth.

You cling to her with whitened knuckles, 

     trying to keep up for as long as possible.

*

Sometimes, she comes slowly,

      surrounding you like warm honey;

      infusing you with the understanding

      that makes sense seem foolish.

You release your relentless thinking

      into a slow river,

running its course.

Creating as she flows.

Making the truth,

     not simply abiding by it.

*

You know it, don’t you?

The sound of her call.

The whispers in the pre-dawn 

     that insist you cannot rest

     until you say what must be said.

*

     

Those of you who are celebrated, and 

     those afraid to show us even a single word.

We are a kind;

We attempt the impossible.

But we do it with a secret knowledge,

     tucked deep inside our chests

     and hidden from view.

This thing we do, and our need to do it

Is exactly

     Write.


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