I have managed to sign myself up for another Blogging U. Its called #everydayinspiration. For the next 20 days I’ll be posting in response to blogging prompts the lovely people at Daily Post will be sending my way. The first is a free write about why I write. Enjoy.

There is never enough in words to really bring it all to life. Still, I try. There are little books filled into small pockets of forgotten spaces in my room that chronicle my numerous attempts at making words into windows into something I had playing on my mind at one point or another.

Its hard to sit back and list all the reasons that lead me to try to get a grip of this particular art form. The fact that I can call it an art form, is, in itself, a testament to how much I have changed in my approach to it. The beginning of this mild, to severe addiction, was in music. It was always an idea of mine, to some extent that idea is still in the back of my mind, to let music tell the things i couldn’t tell the world as my mild mannered alter ego.

When i opened up my notebooks and writing spaces, there was permission. You learn that the key to good writing in honesty and untethered creativity. This was a drug that worked its way into me and taught me the reckless wave of creativity that twisted my mind into foreign realms of awesome. I cant remember ever learning to swim my limbs through any physical body of water successfully, I never had the chance to learn to do that well, but the way I swim through these ideas, and work my own wording to aid there life, has the sensations I sometimes relate to what I feel swimming could feel like. This isn’t the only deficit it kills.

I am allowed a glimpse into things that my mind toyed with mildly, when words are given to these fleeting ideas, they find there bodies wildly, as they are fleshed into the light, I have the opportunity to see the gait of them, when the notion wobbles in its manifestation, I can take to finding the causes.

Maybe I have a story to tell. When I’m taken by the mood, I have enough certainty to spur me on to sharpen my tools so as to lend me the makings of a man who can share what needs to be shared.

I started reading a few more books when I decided to take my writing more seriously. My book shelves began to fill with names that I was told could teach me a great deal, fact and fiction, some Dickens, some Descartes, some Plath, some Sartre. The fascination with stepping into separate worlds was growing at a steady pace. Steady pace, a pace that I wanted to corrupt with a zealous cadence that will find me a new home in the other side of mediocrity. It becomes a challenge to speak for a smaller voice that creates a racket, never allowing itself to be the whole it can truly be.

To my words, I haven’t always been fair about the way you present yourself to the world. I was shy about loving you. But how you could understand the way i was asked to present myself to the world and the way I have to present myself to you. It wasnt that the world was better than the world in the ledgers we have survived. I just found it better, for us, to keep you as perfect as you are. They haven’t got the eye for beauty that you deserve. The writer is an awkward soul who straddles two worlds and borrows time from one world to live in the other more naturally. Where home is, isn’t always clear.