Why the Written Word

One word. Introvert. But seen as antisocial. None know that behind the black soul and DMs lies an irreverent and intelligent mind. Not antisocial, but an observer. Seeing, hearing, smelling tasting all that you put out there. It gives me pause, and ideas. The purple ink flows freely as the discombobulated tornado of words and emotion spiral in my brain, slowly penetrating paper and leaving my fevered fingertips. It is all I know. The words.

The words come unbidden, and most inconveniently. In water, where life is born, I give breath to those letters, slowly forming the syllables that refuse to leave my lips. It is my release, my outlet. I cannot SAY what I need to, want to, have to speak; but I can write. Penning prose in the darkened corners, on my illuminated screen, or in the sand at the beach. It is how I can communicate who I truly am to the world. The world that cannot see me, even when I am directly beneath its plastic, upturned nose.

I write so I can breathe. I write so I can share thoughts and ideas. I write because my colorful characters have more depth and affection without affectation than those who surround me in the real world. I  write to quell the fear, to release the excitement, and to remember that I am real.I write because you never let me speak. I cannot voice thoughts, opine or share my fears or successes. You don't let me tell my stories. You raise loud vocal sounds as words to cover my meek voice, even in a scream. I write because the world listens to my epiphanies, secrets, dreams and hopes. I write to be heard, to know that I too am alive. Breathing, living, pulsing like the purple prose penned in the darkness.