I write to know and feel and understand. I write to figure out what to do, how to proceed in this world in ways that mean hope for one other person. I write to stimulate eruption.
I write to clarify, to distill, to clean, to pierce, to find, to discover, to formulate, and challenge the wasteful thoughts that need to be discarded. I must write to clear it all and challenge myself to find my voice. That voice hunts me and tears at my being – it longs to carve out caves and throw dynamite in crevices where mediocrity lies in rot – smelling away excellence. Give me a cliff to soar from. Let me race down a dirt and bumpy road – kicking up dust and stones – all the wake back. I am ready to let it explode beyond a ceiling up the side of a mountain – through the tunnel of my dreams where on the other side a dim-lit speck beckons and calls – and sings a dirge for those whom I never reached in time.
