Writing is My Freedom. Writing is My Joy.

I live through my writings. I keep my sanity through my writing. I exist in the words I speak and write and they reside within me at depths unreachable at times even to myself. The thoughts I lose I do not chase for in my blood they run, in my skin they dwell and yet they are untouchable because they lie deep. Their sleep is broken by a sound or smell, unique or popular. Sights are brought forth with clarity so profound they are stronger, more real than the ground on which I stand and yet I have to say, there are things which I cannot see in their entirety but can only feel depending on the glow which they give out or are surround by. I feel where my sight stops and my mind understand where my emotions end and yet they never do. So all that I really am is a being of feeling a being of touch, physical and abstract. I am a being of emotions. Emotions so strong that a knife wound is the only comparison for a hand, a bare hand could do no such even with the breaking of bones. Teeth they too could not inflict the pains that these emotions wreak.

I live in words. I live in emotions. My world is the emotional word, the word of emotion. Each word is an emotion. Each sound has touch, for it touches my skin and delves deeper, bringing emotions forth from my soul.

I am not a pen: cold and still, and yet I am. I am not a paper: so light that it may be carried, and yet I am. I am not a thing to be held, discarded, burned, buried, recycled and yet I am. For the word is man and man is the word he speaks. That which solidifies our existence is the word (which remains in a non-existent state.)

I live to think. I live to inspire thought. I live to be free and inspire the free. As "justice is to be found only in the imagination" (Alfred Nobel) so is freedom only in the mind. I inspire the free. I inspire to be free. I inspire thoughts of freedom, for all are free.



If I am to be honest, I most first say that the above came out as I thought to express myself and how I felt about my near achievement or rather my soon coming acheivement as a novelist. I have yet to be published. But that is not what makes a essayist, a novelist or a writer. What makes a writer what she or he is is the thought that she or he is and that she or he writes.

I began this piece/blog to express my sheer happiness of having enjoyed and still enjoying what I do and to measure the joy, pleasure, love against pain. Against pain this is nothing. My inspiration has not been lessened. My joy has not been tainted. I am in love, thoroughly in love with what I do and who I am. Have I failed? I thought I would. Yet in my mind I saw victory and I repeated mentally "Even though I fail, I'll still be happy" and I did not know why. But over and over played a little clip in my mind (one that has never happened) as I sat in a wooden sanctuary at peace, writing the last few words and overjoyed. It played as I failed to write and as I noted how far behind I was. It played as I noted how mathematically challenged I was in my miscalculations. It played as I again saw how far and much I had lagged and then, words of a friend replayed in my head "once you have faith you can do it" (Glen Toussaint) and so from whence I was and whence I came, I turned and I said to my lagging fingers, mind, soul. "I can do this" and so goes the story over a sleep deprived, aspiring poet, just turned story-writer, just turned esassyist penning approximately eight thousand words (of sense, mind you because that section was thoroughly enjoyed) in under twety-four hours. And I must add the Missus who called as I was watching Psych who amazingly knew I'd be slacking and called to get me unslacking. But I must say that in my defence the bit I wrote during the ads made me laugh and did not stray from the plot (as if there was a plot...actually ,I did follow a guideline, which in itself is another win.)

Now since I said firstly, I've got to say secondly since I have no intention of removing 'firstly' and have forgotten what should be...here. Writing makes me happier than anything or anyone on this earth ever has and most likely ever will. So with an aching wrist and fingers and an ankle which pains and shoots occasional pains to my knee, (due to my clumsiness which resluted in me falling on my ankle). I am happier, more at peace, calmer than this soul has ever felt.

Did I mention I was behind again? Two thousand five. I guess that bit was a kind of climax because this section is reaaaaaaallllly slow. I hardly want to write it, which reminds me of books where they are going great and get to a certain section where I simply want to skip it because they are so slow. But no worries. There will definitely be a re-write in February most likely. But all in all. I like this story or stories, since there was an invasion and I simply had to add in another set of characters who brought a completely different feel, atmosphere and setting with them.

Rocking hard, loving harder!