why write?

why write? when you can just as easily not write?

why write when you can read? why write when you can talk? why write when you can watch a movie? why write when you can fly a kite? download a song? eat a fruit? walk your dog? play a game?

why write when the words are so unwilling? like an unruly class of kindergarteners who refuse to make a circle. why write when the ideas are so hazy? and probably ultimately dumb anyway. why write when the head aches, the blood is languid, and the spine unbends only enough to glance at the clock above? why write when all you've said before has refused to stay silent and raises a clamour that makes your toe curl?

[for to be able to write, the extremities must be untroubled and at rest] why write when you have nothing to say goddammit?

because you can't stare at a work of creation for long, no matter how delightfully it thrums within the skull. after the long gaze comes the retreat. and that is when you write. you write all the way home, so the trail of crumbs will lead you back some day. you write all the things you cannot say because you were interrupted, chided, repressed. you write down an idea because it's restless to use its legs, never mind that they're spindly and weak.

you write so you can mark this day, this instant, this quicksilver of belief, before it runs away laughing. you write because a movie is even at its slowest a rush of color and light which doesn't care if that hole in the dark is a yawn or a gape.

because the song is nice but wears out, strawberries are not in season, the leash has knotted around itself and solitaire is an inbetween sport, to play while you're tapping your foot.

because you know that kindergarteners can be bribed, the headache is an old friend, blood can be sloshed awake, and the spine arched into acquiescence. you also know that the clamour of the past can be soothed to sleep by the steady scritchetyscratch of a new page.

and besides, you can't fly a kite.