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aydennraee: Yes Dab of this every morning

aydennraee:

Yes

Dab of this every morning

(Source: lizzedmypants, via thepropensityofpolarity)

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About Me:

I write for You. I write for Me. I write to make peace with the things I cannot control… I write to create vibrant colors in a world that often appears black and white…. I write to discover the mysteries within this world. I write to uncover what’s hidden beneath all the knowledge held by the people. I write to meet my ghosts, and to part with them. I write to begin a thought ended with many more. I write to imagine things differently and in imagining things differently perhaps the world will change. I write to honor beauty. I write to honor everything my love has to offer. I write to gain the respect of my friends. I write because it creates my composure. I write against my power to obtain strength within. I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams. I write in a solitude born out of this community. I write to the questions that wake me from my sleep. I write to the answers that keep me complacent. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to the music that opens up my heart. I write to quell the pain. I write to the wandering beings of this world, communicating through this single most diverse language. I write as a form of translation. I write with the patience of a melancholy in winter. I write because it allows me to confront that which I do not know. I write as an act of hope. I write to make up for that which I am too slow for. I write to record what I love in the face of loss. I write because it makes me less fearful of death. I write as an exercise of pure joy. I write as one who walks on the surface of a frozen river beginning to melt. I write out of my anger and into my passion. I write from the stillness of night. I write to listen to others. I write to soothe the voices shouting inside me, outside me, and all around. I write out of silence. I write because of the humor of our illness known as human. I write because I believe in words. I write because I do not believe in definitions of such words. I write because it is a dance with paradox. I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in a paint shop. I write because it belongs to the force of the moon. I write because it is the way I take long walks. I write as a bow to wilderness. I write as a toast to the gentleman and fellow peers around me. I write because as a child I spoke a different language. I write carving each word through the generosity of the trees that give us life. I write as a ritual. I write because I am not employable. I write out of my own inconsistencies. I write because then I do not have to speak. I write with the colors of memory. I write as a witness to what I have seen. I write as a witness to what I imagine. I write when I am starving. I write when I am full. I write on the other side of procrastination. I write for the children we never had. I write for the love of ideas. I write for the surprise of a sentence. I write with the belief of love and faith in one another. I write knowing I will always fail. I write knowing words always fall short. I write knowing I can be killed by my own words, stabbed by syntax, crucified by both understanding and misunderstanding. I write out of ignorance. I write by accident. I write past the embarrassment of exposure. *I write as though I am whispering in the ear of the one I love* I keep writing and suddenly, I am overcome by the indulgence, (the madness), the meaninglessness, the ridiculousness of this list. I trust nothing especially myself and slide head first into the familiar abyss of doubt and humiliation and threaten to push the delete button on my way down, or madly erase each line, pick up the paper and rip it into shreds - and then I realize, it doesn’t matter, words are always a gamble, words can be splinters from cut glass or the bandages in which we heal with. I write because it is dangerous, like love, to form the words, to say the words, to touch the source, to be touched, to reveal how vulnerable we are, how transient we really are.

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