How did this come to be? I find it unusual and at once astonishing how it is almost as if I just fell into writing; how it just occurred, but I never took any note of how or why or when.
How when I look back at my life I simply cannot remember a time when I did not write, how it is so much a part of me; as is speaking, blinking, breathing or being. How it feels so natural and if I were to stop I would feel naked and exposed, as if the words I write are what keep me warm, are what protect me from the elements.
How to write feels like blinking; if I stopped I would feel the dust from the air collect and lay down it's weight on the watery surface of my eyes, the way feathers collect on the surface of a pond and prevent all those who dwell beneath its surface from seeing out to the external world. Would I be blind?
How to write feels like breathing; and if I paused I would feel my body convulse in desperate attempts to attach life to body to soul through means of the dry, papery air that surrounds me.
How did this come to be? How did writing come to mean so much that to lose it would be to lose myself? How did I take no notice up until this very moment as I sit here now and inevitably do the very thing that I am now telling you I cannot live without?
"To write is to impart a fraction of your soul" but what if I told you it was my whole soul I am imparting, and the "fraction" that this quote speaks of is just a myth; meaningless, insignificant and small in comparison to the immensity of the world from which my writing derives itself.
