I’ve realized, that quite often, I want to write but it feels like I have nothing to say.
Which isn’t true, anyone who knows me knows I’m more than capable of holding a conversation with a cactus (not to suggest that I have). I suppose part of my problem lies in that I see a difference between words: verbal, and words: written.
For some reason, words written down, in ink, in pencil, in paint or lead – they are more precious to me.
Perhaps it’s the idea of having something that is sure to last more than a second or two and something that is tangible instead of something that barely hangs in the air.
I sometimes feel like words will be my legacy, if I leave one. Not because I use them so well or that I am able to say things that people commit to memory and quote… perhaps because it’s the only really true part of me that is there, open, for the world to see.