It seems I only want to write at inconvenient times. I reach for my pen when the clock hands are small shovels breaking ground on the building site of this day, and I ought to be asleep. I feel the urge to write most when it clearly isn't the right time for it. My thoughts nudge me until I listen. I should close my eyes and let them think I haven't noticed. Yet, here I am.
That feeling of suddenly wanting to write is the doorstop evangelist of your mind, determined to compel you to listen to the word. Wanting you to believe the word is good for long enough to write about it, even though later you will look at what you have jotted down askance. It is like having a language in your head you have to translate for whoever matters most to you. Perhaps you must give them a letter that belongs to them, and it has to be conveyed exactly as it was written, to retain any of its meaning but you keep losing what you most wanted to show them, every time you translate it.
Just lately, as well as choosing only the most inconvenient times to start, I have wanted to write of inconvenient things too.
I have wanted to write about chaos; to throw jars of it at the walls and document it's colours. Finding new words for the exact hues. I've wanted to write about honesty. Of how hurting people is inevitable even if by people you only mean yourself and how your humanity depends on what you do with that knowledge and why. I've wanted to record the thoughts I have at three in the morning when the house is the only one left awake to keep me company. Each one of those thoughts a shiny green apple I am biting into. Crunching unapologetically in the stillness.
I've wanted to write about sex and not have to close the book afterwards as though words on something so fundamental must hide from the light. Or to take the turning of leaves happening all around me, like a dervishes dance, and pour the feeling that dance gives me into sentences. To talk about the secrets I have been keeping in the palm of my hand, like singing stones, and to explain exactly how they got there.
I have been nudged to offer paragraphs about love too. The different shades of it and it's shadows. I have wanted to take my brush and a sheet of gold leaf to fill in all the details of my heart. An English gilding. I am asking myself to speak of what it has gathered into itself as it beats and to not be afraid to say aloud what I have kept safe in its recesses. To be able to let my own experience jump out of the silence, like dark fireworks, to claim themselves. And me.
I think I write for two reasons. To not be alone, and because I hope I might remind someone else they are not alone either. I wonder if a lot of what I write about is safe. It doesn't need me to expose sinew and capillaries. To dig for the bone. Or perhaps I am just used to the kind of digging I have always done and only need to learn another way.
So, here I am, with my beginnings and the boxes of my mind spilling their contents onto the old wooden countertop in front of you. I'm trying to find if any of the wares I have brought have stories worth the telling. Im waiting for the thing that catches my eye, and makes me open my courage outwards with no limits until I don't just dig for bone, but for oil and copper, and buried treasure too.