When I Write

When I Write
I write because it is part of me.
I write because it makes me happy.
I write, because when I do, I feel better. On those days it is as though a cloud lifts, and I see the world with brighter colors.
When I write, sometimes – most of the time – I write poetry. I feel images surfacing. I hear words in my head. I need to write them down. To give them a home in black on white. To see the undulating scribble of my handwriting. I hear the juxtapositions of sounds, the sometimes alliteration, the short and the long, the rhythm of waves crashing on the shore, the allegory, and the symbol.
When I write, I hear bells in my head. I watch raindrops fall on mushrooms. I glide under the lid of my own fantasy, hurled into a sky of rolling clouds. I ride a magic carpet on which I am truly me, more than me and also, at times, petulant me. I let the child me roam. She picks wildflowers . She smells them, and plucks petals pitilessly.
When I write, afterwards, I sometimes discover hidden secrets. I find thoughts that were seeking to be expressed, emotions that begged to be unleashed, feelings that hoped to be felt.
When I write, I oscillate between poetry and prose. I let my pen roll in its own ecstasy on the paper. I am transported to faraway lands; sunset in a dusty red desert, full moon in a mossy old growth forest, populated by elfin maidens.
When I write, I see with my ears, touch with my eyes, hear with my heart. I am called into the House of Language by an ancient muse named Synesthesia. I have been courting her since my teenage years. She is a rebel at heart, yet as old as the hills. She carries me to lavender shores, where monkeys drum, butterflies hum, and mostly everyone else dreams
When I write, I am saved by words. I am purified by the emptiness that follows. I let myself lay on the brink of uncertainty, even fear. I walk precariously on a tightrope that I tried to challenge many moons ago for the first time. Now I yearn to each day. It has taught me to take risks. Within it I see the river flowing. Through it I am shown that no moment is ever repeated. No context can be remembered so accurately that the imagination wouldn’t need to be beckoned in as an ally.
When I write, I write in the present. I write in the past. I write in the future. I write from the first person, from the second and third; I write for all the people. I write to pour myself into all my parts, to fill all my pores.
When I write, I feel my heart swell and get bigger.
When I write, I am me.