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Why I Write
Hips ache. Knees hurt. The road is long, hilly and punishing. I write to survive. I write to honor the past. I write to recall the journey of earthly miles and memory of souls worn thin. I write to heal. I write with patience, great breath and aging grace. I write in rhythm, hip hop and reggae, to refresh my pace. I write to grasp life swift and sure. I write to feel aware, to savor what my senses offer. I write to escape city noise and glare, away to the quiet of the meadow and woodland path. I write to the red tailed hawk and the fisher, the wild turkeys and the fawn. I write to conceive the future, the mysteries that lie ahead, and the answers that wait. I write to design a plan, a patchwork of ideas that meet, merge, and meld. I write to state my intentions, plainspoken and frank. I write to discover why, to anticipate a need, to quell a desire. I write to shun winter’s darkness and sail on the light. I write to argue, quarrelsome and scrappy squabbling, the language of lips and lungs in motion. I write to whisper the words heard in dreams precisely spoken. I write to rummage in optimism’s closet. I write to risk failure, to gamble on the dangerous luck of words in a page. I write with the understanding that the road will end. I write to emerge. I write to begin again.
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