briefly, on the writer, or writing, or…


little hearts

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” ― Ernest Hemingway


Perhaps we are supposed to feel this discomfort of so much apparent transparency. But nobody tells you when you start, so that you can decide if you want to get into it or not. And then it is too late.

People will imagine they know the why, and then comb through your musings congratulating themselves for mastering the mystery.

It annoys me. Does it annoy you? Anyone imagining the absence of steel or boundaries in that brew of blood and tenderness that colors our virtual pages?

More precisely, does it not hurt to think that the song we sing, and always will, might be mistaken for a plea? Or our kneeling for submissiveness?

And then all those assumptions about what we seek…when in fact we want nothing, and everything, and half the time we are struggling to re-discover what that means for each of us.

I didn’t know it, but the truth is, sometimes, we are forced to write just to keep iciness from settling. We bleed not because we know no other way, but because we do know another way, and that way is a vulgar insult to any soul, and it must be stopped at whatever cost.

And usually, we pay a high price for our musings. An overdoing, an error, ends up being the truth, and it scares us half to death…or a bit more than that.

And then the truth, so deep and necessary, ends up being a wisp of smoke that serves only to flavor something unexpected which also scares us half to death…or a bit more than that.

We must protect our arrogance so as to remain vulnerable. Our small acts of personal courage are often mistaken for great generosity. And that romantic heart that selfishly breaks itself to create some wisdom in images that will, hopefully, justify the breaking…that little heart is tossed in every kind of misunderstanding, until it becomes even smaller and more confused. And even that smallness and confusion become a story to be recorded and presented for a grand viewing.

We can not hide, or recover, or plan, or repent. Even our silence speaks.

But why, you might ask, is this bothering me today?

Well, it is because I asked, perhaps for the first time, if I am writing a story, or if it is writing me.

And suddenly, that question, threw me into the deepest loneliness and the largest crowd all at the same time. Perhaps there is no reason for my song. Perhaps it is just a song.

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