I am alone with my keyboard again, weaving something of a universe culled from both my experiences and my imagination. I struggle with the idea that nothing I can imagine could compare to the actual recent events of my life; what I've seen, heard and felt. But I write because I have to, because I cannot do anything but this. I must metabolise my experience on the blank page, put it down, order it, control it in my way. This is how I understand the world. How I answer the question: why?
Why?
It's the word that drives me, the question, the answer just around the corner if only I can get there. I write, letting a river of possibility flow through me, letting go of all my deeply stored energy pass from the air onto the page. Some people fear the enormity of the blankness before them, that empty white field. I live for it, it excites me.
People ask;
'Is it just about the knowing?'
'Surely ignorance is bliss sometimes?'
'Is it worth it to know?'
Could anything be more worth it?!
In every character, every heart beating, there is a unique universe, every shade of black and white you could imagine. There is obviously the very potential of finding darkness, but alongside there is the potential to turn from darkness and walk into the light.
I have to go there, into the shadow of unknowing.
I'd rather die enveloped in the darkness than bask a lifetime ignorant in the light.
But maybe that's just me?
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