termites of the page

I can’t say I could never do something unless I try.

Writing fascinates me. I think about it daily—sometimes a little obsessively. I devour the thought of how to play with words, how I can relay the message the words hold within themselves. I’m intrigued by the challenge of writing for something that sparks nothing in your head—or for something that brings up too much.

I’ve relied on writing since a very young age to help me get through things, and it’s always managed to be there for me. The unfortunate times that it’s not there? Those are the times I don’t allow it to be. I cap my pen, close my notebook, and squander in the feeling of defeat.

I’ll admit—sometimes I’m the first to the exit door. It’s the easiest way out, right?

Instead of being there for the words, I sink in my throne and abandon them for weeks. Bukowski once had a ten-year drought.
Could I ever go ten years without writing?
I can barely last an entire week.

My mind infects the page all too often, lacing my shoes to run.
Instead of turning the mind off and experimenting, I become my own personal editor.

Which, let me say, lands me with more blank pages than filled.

Maybe I’m just looking for direction—a style, an arrow, a path.
Something to tape my name by.

But do I really need all that?
Can’t I just sit around, tell my mind to fuck off, and experiment awhile?

See you in the pages.