Mountain Springs of Language

And why do any of us write after all? I consider writing to be a capturing of the life spring of human language. Strings of poetry, prose, ramblings, a haphazard mixture of all three - these carry volumes of meaning to and from a world deeply craving significance. Of course we require the oceans of vocabulary and the rivers of practical speech to carry our day to day interactions. But oh, bliss of heaven! to tap into those hidden mountain springs of tranquil and ferocious thought..

I write for a need to fling the rawness. A rawness similar to poets like Poe, simultaneously enraptured and terrified by the power of the dark. The rawness of Longfellow and the epic power of his meter (The Seaside and the Fireside). The rawness of dear Lord Byron, sweetly melancholic and aching for all the pain and pride of living..

I write for the sake of unity. At the core of every human soul pangs the longing for something greater. As a Christian myself, I know this ache in me to be the longing for Heaven. All of humanity longs to play an integral part in this human drama, and writers from all ages and nations, centuries and backgrounds, they capture and reflect this exquisitely through the language of the life spring.

I suppose I write, if ever desperately, to keep the "mountain spring" in motion and my scattered mind intact.