Thoughts on writing

I write because I have to, when I write- it becomes bearable, real, alive. When I write, I am no longer choking back the words but finally breathing fire. When I write, I take the knife and go right up the vein, not across- mind you. When I write, I no longer exist. I long, some days, to no longer exist. Words become color and sound, blue warmth and thunder heartbeats. I miss Midwest summers when the thunder would become my heartbeat and the storms would hide my shame. When I write, discomfort becomes my friend, driving the words like a herd of sheep towards the some day greener pastures and the sheep know only to follow. I can only follow the words as they move faster, become larger, make the leap from nightmare to dream and I am still standing when it is all finished. I lean quietly on dangling modifiers, semi-colons, and enjambment, not the sort of thing one wants as a foundation but it is a start. When I write, I am finally breathing, releasing, living. When I write the demons come out of the shadows and take shape, they can be named, I can be free. When I write memories are no longer mine, but some thing else entirely, a moment outside of my secrets, a window into someone else's story, a journey towards something shared. There's a stillness to words, even as they move faster, space to breathe between letters and periods. There is a silence to words that is louder then any other sound that I have ever heard. A silence that can be bold and full of explosions and never uttered aloud. There is safety here,even with a knife to my wrist. It's up the vein- baby-never across.