I’m trying to become a better writer. Consider it a mid-year resolution, or more appropriately a quarter-year aspiration, since it’s neither mid-year nor was there any resolve involved. I’ve been thinking about developing a hobby, and writing is a close as it comes – a craft, a thing, a time sink into which I happily devote many an hour of heart and headache, expecting no worldly return, except the occasional fancy that these honest, intimate, unfiltered thoughts of mine would be heard across the vastness of cyberspace, that there would be an echo.
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How did our cave dwelling ancestors know the world existed objectively, outside of their perception? That others too felt the gnaw of hunger and sting of cold? How could they have known that others saw the same waning sun disappear in a trail of bloody twilight? Surely the desire to confirm the existence of things would have been as old as our ability to grunt and signal… Imagine the relief they felt when our ancestors recognized the shape of their own selves in the finger scratchings of other Men. You see me.
That is the magic of art. It gives us a more sublime language. In words and in paint we recreate in another mind the same electrical impulses delivered to ours as our eyes beheld the rising resplendent sun. We can tell another how much we love them, but we can lay bare our wrenching hearts in iambic pentameter.
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That is why I write.
The stories, the memories, the feels… they need to come out. We’re not built to the keep things in our minds for too long lest it fester. Now you see me. These are the evidence of me.
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