why do i write?

to express myself, of course!

she says, mumbling fortitudes on monday, platitudes on sunday, and arching in attempts to ascribe meaning to what has not yet been created.

to impress others, of course!

and yet, no audience has buttered its corn or slathered its eyes in 3D nonsense. no one claps or cheers, for nothing plays.

to discover who I am, of course!

everchanging self is an enigma to dissect. how to identify the tiny, moving parts that wiggle without regard, yet it is you, the regardless pest, turning inwards on rusting pieces that crash and spread ineffectual dust. it is aimless. what do you aim for?

perfection, of course!

no such thing. 

to be, of course!

who do you ingratiate yourself for? the fish, the flowers? your mother, in her warmth and love, or your father, in his monstrous attempts at humanity? for your friends, some of whom wear a crown and jade armor, while the others are still stacking dirt piles for their kingdom. to curry favor, to establish hierarchy, to inspire jealousy in others? 

remember the river of a plum, fecund and wild, dripping down your wrist. the bolus forms and you choke on it. meaning takes shape and is willed into existence like barbed wire against your teeth, the same wire that entraps cod and shrimp and bacteria. ideas blossom here and are drawn into the earth, the fresh, wholly pregnant soil, and in the reflection of rock lies you, somewhere, withdrawn and macerated. do you incubate her, or watch her skin peel, unhatched, and unwilling? no one else can rock the cradle but you - no one exists here but you.

your boon is the comfort of creation.

this sounds appetizing. not too farfetched or cowardly, not too selfish or rooted in unabashed paracord, the kind sailors pull taut to brave the weather. 

they are taught to survive, not to express. what do you choose to learn?

...to be, for me,

the shell of the seed flies forth into the wind.

in your smile is the pasture of fine white pebbles or glitter that ravens see, and you are collected. your flesh is a trophy, your brain an offering, and your skeleton a reservoir for desire. re-desired over and over again until your nutrients - the seeds of self - are dispersed into entirely new receptacles of life. the labyrinth of your labor is stretched across the seas and yawning at the sky. it closes its eyes and you wake. 

of course!