Day 86: I Am, Because I Write
86/100 → There are days when I can't help but think: I wish I could surf the way I write. Not to say that writing is easier for me; it's just something I know how to do. I wish I had skills that were more tangible, like how cooking is self-evident, or how craft is concrete, or how at least having a sense of direction will make it possible for me to drive. Instead, I was given the ability to feel the world through words, and it is the only way I know how to give myself back. I can't cutback the way I can cut a sentence, and I definitely can't start a fire with sticks or charcoal or lighter fluid the same way I may light tiny fires in the souls of those who care to read.
Writing was just always there, in the bedroom of books, in the library of life's loves, in the litany of its losses. I did not wish to become a writer because the title was misleading. And yet everything I do finds its way back into words, like the ocean settling on the shore into smaller and smaller parts.