I write to make peace with the things I cannot control.
I write to create a colorful fabric in a world that often appears black and white.
I write to discover, I write to uncover; I write to meet my ghosts and I write to begin a dialogue.
I write to imagine things differently, and in imagining and acting on things differently perhaps the world will change.
I write to honor art and beauty.
I write to correspond with my friends.
I write as a daily act of improvisation.
I write to appreciate nature and natural splendor.
I write because it aids in creating my composure.
I write against greed and power. I write for democracy.
I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams.
I write in a solitude born out of community.
I write the questions that shatter my sleep. I seek the answers that dampen my slumber.
I write to the answers that have made me complacent.
I write to remember, I write to forget. I write to quell the pain.
I write to the music that opens my heart.
I write with patience and melancholy in the winter seasons.
I write because it allows me to confront that which I do not know or understand fully.
I write as an act of faith.
I write as an act of solidarity and solitude.
I write to record what I love in the face of loss and disappointment.
I write because it makes me less fearful of death.
I write as an exercise in pure joy and painful sorrow.
I write as one who walks on the surface of a frozen river-frost beginning to melt.
I write out of my anger and try to pour that into my passions.
I write from stillness, anticipating -- always anticipating.
I write to listen, I write out of silence.
I write to soothe the voices shouting inside me, outside me, all around me.
I write because I believe in the power of words.
I write because it is a dance with a paradoxical alter-ego.
I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in
I write when I take long walks.
I write because I believe it can create a path in darkness and shed a light.
I write with a knife, carving each word from the generosity of trees.
I write with key-strokes, punching each key-word into a plastic box.
I write as ritual, I write as habit.
I write out of my inconsistencies.
I write with the colors of memory, and contemplate the shades overtime.
I write as a witness to what I have seen; I write as witness to what I imagine.
I write by grace and grit.
I write for the love of ideas.
I write for the surprise of a sentence.
I write knowing I will always fail.
I write knowing words always fall short.
I write knowing I can be killed by own words, stabbed by syntax, crucified by understanding and misunderstanding.
I write past the embarrassment of exposure.
I write as though I am whispering into the ear of the one I love.
I write as though I am speaking to children.
I write as thought I am a parallel; that of a woman and a child-girl.
I slide head first into the familiar abyss of doubt and humility with impending threat to push the delete button along my way, or madly erase each line; pick up the paper and rip it into shreds -- and then I realize it doesn't matter, words are always a gamble and words are like splinters from cut glass.
I write because it is dangerous, a bloody risk, a lot like love. To form the words, to say the words; to touch the source, to be touched, to reveal how vulnerable we really are...
I write as if I am a Legend.
2017 (C) Jennifer Crawley
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