Life plays dirty. Life doesn't play by the rules. Life lets you do what you please, and doesn't tell you the consequences until you're smack dab in the middle of them. Life lets itself happen to you without letting you realize it.
I've been playing with life for the past little while, and I thought I was being quite clever about it. I thought I had the upper hand. I thought I knew how to play the game better than life itself. I forgot that life has been playing the game for a considerably longer time than I.
The above paragraphs are my attempts as a writer to say in the most clever and metaphorical way possible that I have been learning a very hard lesson of late. Following those paragraphs one would traditionally have some sort of follow up explanation, carrying the original thought with exquisite grace and ease, letting it float from the page to the reader's mind, and--if the writer is really good--into the depths of the reader's very soul. I would love to do that, but the honest truth is that I am far out of practice of late.
My last genuinely entertaining, thoughtful, inspiring piece was written almost two years ago(in my own not-so-humble opinion). Since that time, I have written when it is convenient or when it fits into my ever-busying schedule. I have written more poetry than my heart can handle, and I have found that satisfying to an extent. I have told myself that I am simply growing, and that the writer in me was only a phase. A moment in time. An insignificant enjoyable experience.
The past several months(and my incredibly heart-stoppingly beautiful and inspiring girlfriend) have taught me otherwise.
I write. It is something that I do. I enjoy it more than almost any other activity I have ever done in my life. It brings me joy. It brings me peace. It nourishes my soul. It is when I feel God's pleasure. It makes me feel alive. And I'm damn well good at it.
And if I am damn well good at something, then any sensible person would say that I should damn well do that something. And I say that that person is damn well right.
So it has come to pass that I have made a pact with myself--which I will no doubt regret on many occasions--that I am going to write. Often. At least once a week to be precise. Even if my hand feels like a block of wood and my brain like a blob of baloney. If my mind feels empty and my soul drained--still I will write.
I will not set out to recapture or relive the glorious moments and feelings of writing in the past--though they were grand moments indeed--for that would be to spin in circles. I will not write to make myself feel good--though the reader may think that contradicts previous statements--for that would be to serve none but my selfish desires. I will not write to make others feel good--though I sincerely hope that at least one will enjoy the scribblings of my thoughts--for that would be to allow others to dictate my art. I will write because I need to write.
And so, dear reader, it is my sincerest hope that you will join me on this new journey, and that the process may somehow inspire you to set out upon an adventure of your own. For if there is one thing that life has taught me since I put down the pen, it is this: Our minds were created to travel.
Life plays dirty, but I've got a bar of soap.
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