Ten Reasons I love WRITING
*This is going to be written in narrative/essay form.
‘There is nothing to writing. All you have to do is sit at a typewriter and bleed.”- Ernest Hemingway
I love to write because I love to bleed.
I love the copper smell that rises out of my veins and the pools of oxygen-exposed liquid gathering around the keys n a keyboard, making them glisten and shine in a way that makes you curious in the moonlight of the midnight. I love the way it drenches my paper. Seeping through slowly, marking the looseleaf with permanence—permanently leaving a piece of my broke, raw, healing soul.
Some call it ink–my blood.
I love to write because I talk too much, because sometimes I want to sck back all the words I have ever spoken down my throat and let them all choke me. Because sometimes there are words clogging up my throat and I can’t say anything right. And in those moments, it’s like no one can hear me. They cannot understand the pain and the anguish that is weighing in this heavy silence that is dragging down my spine. They can’t understand that sometimes my love s concrete feet. My love is a wrecking ball, and it’s wrapped around MY ankles over a waterfall and I’m drowning, an ocean away from them all, but they somehow see me right there.
I love to write because in that moment, I feel truly beautiful in the only way that ever matters, from the roots. I feel a freedom guiding my every finger movement, lifting me up into a blissful oblivion.
I love to write because he says things that make me stop talking. I get all full of exposed nerve bundles that are constantly pressed and I lean my head into the rain of an endless thunderstorm that I am stuck inside. BOOM! The thunder reigns. BOOM BOOM, BOOOOOOM. The thunder roars. BOOM, the thunder MOURNS and the rain rushes down eager to clean the dirt off my skin and I’m trapped but the rain feels so good it makes me not want to escape the panic.
His name clogs my throat, but he’ll never know.
When i write and create, I can speak, I can roar and the thunder and lightning is mine.
I can expose my beating heart and no one can make me regret it.
I love to write because it quiets the noise that rises like bile from the throats of venemous bigots.
The venom that weighs on my head like the worst kind of headache, and even the rain can’t cure that kind of dehydration that sucks the life from my bones and the venom makes me want to hide and expose myself and when I write or create, I can do both at the same time.
When I write, I can do what I want to do in those moments, I can run and run and run and run on the streets of South Jamaica In broad daylight, dressed in the Halloween costume of a plain Jane and play pretend like they make me, and I’ll run and run and run in my city and I’ll walk and smile and pretend that I’m free when I know I am not.
I love to write because I do not torture myself by trying to drown in shallow water.