Writing…O, precious writing. Why have I held back from you over these past several days?
Instinctively ignoring my natural inclination towards writing is comparable to walking bare-bodied in public for days at a time. In nakedness, I am utterly and innappropriately not my presentable, relatable self. I am, I become, almost removed from this dimension. If that makes sense. See, writing is so much of how I understand and react to the world around me, as well as how I present myself that the world may in turn understand and react.
How funny it is, though, to hear myself say that writing brings me into a more full position of citizen of the world. Wait– perhaps “funny” is not the proper descriptor. Try ironic? Paradoxical? You choose. Anyway, it is ______ to hear myself say that writing brings me into a more full position as citizen of the world, because I so often feel it is writing that estranges me in an alternate dimension. A dimension of deep-thought madness and insatiable wisdom-hunger.
I joke occasionally with my parents, saying that in recent times of loneliness, as I have delved deeply into the unkept garden of poetry, I have felt closer to such deceased persons as T.S.Eliot and Allen Ginsberg than to my own fellow flesh-and-blood living, breathing humans.
Now that is a dangerous place to be, where I have planted myself into this garden, roots growing quickly, my leaves shutting out the sunlight of the active world. It is dangerous, too, to cut myself entirely from this realm where my reading feeds my writing and my writing clothes me in humanness.
What an interesting, funny, ironic, paradoxical situation I have here.
I resolve to find the perfect balance of the two sides of it, for my leafy human self, a resolution that may take more than a lifetime to fulfill.